Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences 3030753107, 9783030753108

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Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences Edited by Omotayo O. Banjo

Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences

Omotayo O. Banjo Editor

Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences

Editor Omotayo O. Banjo College of Arts & Sciences University of Cincinnati Cincinnati, OH, USA

ISBN 978-3-030-75310-8    ISBN 978-3-030-75311-5 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

This volume is dedicated to families separated by borders or policy and to every hard-working immigrant who makes America better.

Acknowledgments

I acknowledge the works of creatives whose work illuminated my story: Aziz Ansari, Constance Chu, America Ferrara, Mindy Kaling, Steve McQueen, Hasan Minhaj, Yvonne Orji, Issa Rae, and others. I hope to be among those who record your moments in the history of storytelling. This volume could not exist without the contributors who believed in its vision and worked tirelessly through one of the most difficult years we have faced as a nation to produce this book. To each of them, I express deep gratitude. I would also like to honor the scholars before me who laid the groundwork for the study of ethnic media and transnational audiences and who continue to engage in scholarship centered on questions of immigrant and bi-cultural identities. I write this in appreciation for my colleagues who served as sounding boards and gave their feedback. To my mentors, I am indebted to you for the time you take to encourage and inspire my work. For my family, my mother, father, sister, husband, and daughter, Morayo AdeYara, I am grateful. Thank you for sharing your stories with me and laying a foundation which inspired me to tell my own.

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Contents

1 Becoming Black: An Introduction to Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences  1 Omotayo O. Banjo Part I Representation: Foreign Realities Onscreen  29 2 Stages of Being Foreign as Portrayed in The Citizen and Moscow on the Hudson 31 Fran Hassencahl 3 First-Generation Korean American Women’s Mobility: Intersections of Ethnicity/Race, Class, and Gender 49 Heui-Yung Park 4 “Then We Show Ourselves”: Resisting Immigration in Party of Five Reboot 67 Rachel L. Grant and Hayley Markovich 5 Contested Citizenship: The Representation of Latinx Immigration Narratives in Jane the Virgin and One Day at a Time 87 Claudia A. Evans-Zepeda and Zazil Reyes García

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6 Immigrants Make America Great: A Textual Analysis of Bob Hearts Abishola111 Nathaniel Frederick II, Omotayo O. Banjo, and Emmanuel Nwachukwu Part II Content Creation: Industry Concerns and Constraints 135 7 Ambivalence and Contradiction in Digital Distribution: How Corporate Branding and Marketing Dilute the Lived Experiences in Ramy137 Peter Arne Johnson 8 Un Puente a la Mesa: The Role of Cultural Translators in the Production of Disney/Pixar’s Coco155 Litzy Galarza and Paulina A. Rodríguez Burciaga Part III Audience Reflections and Responses 183 9 Yvonne Orji’s Docuseries, First Gen: First-Generational Narratives and the Impact on Audiences’ Community Cultural Wealth185 David L. Stamps 10 Am I an All-American Girl? An Autocritography of Ethnicity, Gender, and Acculturation via Margaret Cho’s All-­American Girl (1994–1995)203 Charisse L’Pree Corsbie-Massay 11 Between a Banana and a Coconut: Reflections on Being Second-Generation American on the Periphery219 Diane Sabenacio Nititham 12 Language, Telenovelas, and Citizenship: A Mexican Immigrant’s Exploration of First-Generation American Narratives in Jane The Virgin237 Litzy Galarza

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13 Mixing and Re-making: The Identity of SecondGeneration Bangladeshis in the United States271 Shafiqur Rahman 14 Strega Nona: The Spell on Identities289 Violetta Ravagnoli 15 Rebuilding the American Dream307 Precious Yamaguchi Index329

Notes on Contributors

Omotayo  O.  Banjo is an associate professor in the Department of Communication at the University of Cincinnati. She holds a PhD from Penn State University. Her work examines the interplay between social identity and culturally centered entertainment with an aim to validate ethnic media, transnational media products and audiences as worthy sites for scholarly inquiry as it relates to media and identity. A Fulbright Scholar, her articles have appeared in journals such as Journal of Communication, Communication Theory, Journalism and Mass Communication Quarterly, Media Psychology, and Journal of Communication and Religion. Charisse  L’Pree  Corsbie-Massay  is Associate Professor of Communications at the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. She holds BS degree in Brain and Cognitive Science and Comparative Media Studies from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, an MA degree from the School of Cinematic Arts at the University of Southern California, and a PhD in Social Psychology also from USC. She investigates the relationship between media and identity to understand how media affect the way we think about ourselves and others, and how we use media to construct and reaffirm positive identities. Her TEDxSyracuse talk, “The Psychology of Selfies,” considers how digital self-portraiture can be used as a self-esteem intervention and a way to engage with social issues. Her most recent book chapter explores how social scientists manipulate race and gender in experimentation and how that affects our understanding of these concepts.

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Claudia A. Evans-Zepeda  is an associate professor in the Department of Human Communication Studies at California State University, Fullerton. Her scholarship and pedagogy include the communicative intersections of culture, identity labels, and the role of race in migration, particularly within the context of social justice activism. Her work is focused on the media representations of Latina/o/x families. Engaging the fields of communication studies, critical race theory, and Latino Studies, she has presented her research at numerous international, national, and regional academic conferences. She has contributed her work to various journals, including Women’s Studies in Communication Journal, and co-authored manuscripts in the Chicana/Latina Journal, Association of Mexican American Educators Journal, Review of Communication, Journal of International & Intercultural Communication, and Communication Monographs, among others. Her prior and current research projects examining Latino/a youth activism have appeared in edited book volumes, including Latino Discourse in Vernacular Spaces: Somos de un(a) Voz?, The Rhetorics of US Immigration: Identity, Community and Otherness, and Learning from Diverse Latina/o Communities: Social Justice Approaches to Civic Engagement. Nathaniel Frederick II  is Associate Professor of Mass Communication at Winthrop University. As a scholar, Frederick’s research focuses on the intersection between media, cultural production, and social protest, during the civil rights movement. Litzy Galarza  is a first-generation American. Litzy is also the first professor and the last foreign-born immigrant in her extended family. Her family migrated from Durango, Mexico, to Phoenix, Arizona, when she was six years old. Growing up in a mixed-status household shaped her understanding of citizenship and belonging. Galarza’s research focuses on discourses of citizenship in Latinx representation and labor in popular culture. She is Assistant Professor of Mass Communication and teaches mass communication law and ethics and introduction to communication in a global age at the University of North Alabama. Rachel L. Grant  is an assistant professor in the Department of Journalism at University of Florida. Her academic research looks at media studies of race, gender, and class and she has conducted extensive research with social movements, social justice, and Black feminism. Her work explores

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the media discourse of historic, national symbols and the continuation of systemic racism and oppression. Her articles have appeared in peerreviewed journals such as Celebrity Studies and Southwest Education Council for Journalism and Mass Communication Journal. Fran Hassencahl  is Associate Professor of Communication and Theatre Arts at Old Dominion University. Her work focuses on the framing of messages through political cartoons, press stories, and debate and on the construction of identity in the novels and film. She is a Fulbright-Hays scholar (1989), Malone Scholar, former member of the National Council of the United States Arab Relations, and grantee United States Information Agency, Syria (1994–1995). Peter Arne Johnson  is a graduate student in the University of Texas at Austin’s Department of Radio-Television-Film, where he is pursuing a PhD in Media Studies. His research focuses on critical media industry studies, specifically media history, television, and digital distribution. He received his M.F.A. in Film & Television Studies from Boston University, where he also received his B.S. in Film & Television and B.S. in Business Administration. He is currently a graduate research assistant at the University of Texas at Austin’s Center for Entertainment and Media Industries. Hayley  Markovich is pursuing her PhD in Mass Communication at University of Florida’s College of Journalism and Communications. She is also pursuing certificates in health communication and women’s studies. Her research focuses on women’s healthcare in the United States. She is particularly interested in studying representations of women’s health in popular culture and mass media products. Additionally, her work explores the impact these representations have on women’s understandings of and approaches toward illness and disease at the interpersonal level and in everyday life. She approaches her research using qualitative and critical/cultural methodologies and perspectives. She has presented her work at various communication conferences and is a contributing author to Normalizing Mental Illness and Neurodiversity in Entertainment Media: Quieting the Madness (2021). Diane Sabenacio Nititham  is an associate professor in the Department of Political Science and Sociology and serves as the Sociology Program Director at Murray State University. She holds a PhD in Sociology (University College Dublin, Ireland), an MA with distinction in Social and

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Cultural Foundations in Education (DePaul University), and a BA in Communication (DePaul University). Her research interests include home/belonging, diaspora, and globalization. Her most recent book, Making Home in Diasporic Communities, was published in 2016. In 2017, she received the Murray State Emerging Scholar Award. Her teaching interests include popular culture, sociology of migration, sociology of education, race/ethnicity, and globalization. Nititham is working with the Radio Preservation Task Force, a project of the Library of Congress’s National Recording Preservation Board. Her focus is on locating, documenting, and preserving sound and audio materials from Filipino communities throughout the US. Emmanuel  Nwachukwu holds a PhD from The School of Communication at the University of Southern Mississippi. He has taught public relations principles, advertising principles, social media and Mass Communication theory and research at Winthrop University before joining Savannah State University. His research interest includes political public relations, crisis communication, social media in advertising and its impact in developing economies, new media research in public relations, and race and minorities in the media. Heui-Yung Park  is Assistant Professor of English at Kyungil University. She has published Korean and Korean American Life Writing in Hawai‘i: From the Land of the Morning Calm to Hawai‘i Nei (2016) and a few scholarly articles in The Journal of English Language and Literature, Journal of American Studies, and Journal of English Studies in Korea. Her areas of research interests include life writing studies, diaspora studies, Asian American literature—including Korean American literature—and Korean literature. Shafiqur  Rahman is an associate professor and the chair of Communication Studies Department at California State University, San Bernardino. He holds a PhD in Communication and Media Arts from Southern Illinois University at Carbondale in 2007. He specializes in International Communication and published his work in academic journals including International Communication Gazette. His ethnography on the Bangladeshi diaspora in the United States was published in LFB Scholarly Publishing’s The New Americans series (edited by Steven J. Gold and Ruben G. Rumbaut).

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Violetta  Ravagnoli is Associate Professor of History at Emmanuel College. She was born and raised in Rome, Italy, where she graduated with a BA in Oriental Languages and Civilizations from the University of Rome “La Sapienza.” She also holds an MS in International Affairs from the Georgia Institute of Technology and a PhD degree in History from the State University of New York at Buffalo. Her research focuses on Asian history as well as migrations and diaspora. Zazil Reyes García  is Associate Professor and Director of Communication Arts in the School of Media and Design at the University of the Incarnate Word. As a native Yucatecan living in Texas, she recognizes the importance of working across borders and cultures. Her research interests are broadly located at the intersection of Latina/o/x studies, women’s and gender studies, and media and popular culture. Her work in political cartoons and visual rhetoric has been featured in the Oxford Encyclopedia of Communication and in the edited volumes Black Comics: Politics of Race and Representation, and Latina/o/x Communication Studies: Theories, Methods, and Practice. Her research has received several Top Paper awards at the National Communication Association (NCA) Convention. Paulina A. Rodríguez Burciaga  is a PhD candidate in the Department of History and Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality at The Pennsylvania State University and pursuing graduate specializations in Latina/o Studies and Kinesiology. She has taught courses in the Latina/o Studies Program, as well as the Department of Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies at Penn State. Her research interests include twentieth-century U.S. history, borderlands history, gender and sexuality in sport, and Latina/x sport history. Her dissertation, “Deportistas!: Mexican American Women, Sporting Citizenship and Belonging in the Twentieth Century,” centers Mexican women athletes to interrogate questions of immigration, gender and sexuality, race, and citizenship, as they become embodied in the performance of athletic labor. David L. Stamps  is an assistant professor in the Manship School of Mass Communication at Louisiana State University. He holds a PhD from University of California, Santa Barbara. His research focuses on interpersonal engagement among racialized minorities, representations of marginalized groups in mass media, and the impact of mass media imagery on audience members. Specifically, his research is aimed at understanding the psychological and behavioral effects of identity-focused interpersonal

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interactions, as well as audiences’ exposure to and engagement with mass media, including digital, news, and entertainment media. Inherent in his conceptualization of this work is a recognition that issues of class, gender, race, ability, geographic location, and sexuality meaningfully impact these relationships. Stamps’s research has appeared in several published books, including Films as Rhetorical Texts: Cultivating Discussion about Race, Racism and Race Relations, and in peer-reviewed journals, including Journalism and Mass Communication Quarterly, the Howard Journal of Communications, and Journal of Communication Inquiry. Stamps is the inaugural recipient of The Claudine Michel Advocacy and Excellence Award and was recently awarded the Louisiana Board of Regents OER Common Faculty Cohort Program Award and the One-For-All Public Relations Classroom Project Grant. His research has been supported by the Congressional Black Caucas, E Pluribus Unum, Blue Cross and Blue Shield, and The Social Science Research Council, to name a few. He has presented at multiple conferences, including the National Communication Association, Broadcast Education Association, and Mid-Atlantic Popular and American Culture conference. A former publicist and grant writer, he also holds a BA from Columbia College Chicago and an MA from California State University, Northridge. Precious  Yamaguchi is Associate Professor of Communication at Southern Oregon University. She teaches intercultural communication and new media, with a special emphasis on video game production and culture. Her book on the Japanese American internment was published in 2014.

CHAPTER 1

Becoming Black: An Introduction to Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences Omotayo O. Banjo

She sat across from me, assured. We discussed many things that afternoon as I had with previous prospective students, but this conversation was slightly soul-­ baring. While sharing her experience at an HBCU which included connecting with African international students from who she sought to learn about her connection to the Continent, she informs me “you are not part of the diaspora.” Admittedly, I was caught off guard. I ran through my mental library to offer her a definition of diaspora of which I was sure I was part. She shared her view on diaspora based on the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Yes. I wasn’t that. Though I knew there were definitions that accounted for my experience, I found myself triggered. After burrowing through the name-calling in kindergarten, the inquisitions of my identity in high school and the confrontations of my blackness in graduate school, I had established myself as a

O. O. Banjo (*) College of Arts & Sciences, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_1

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scholar of Black Entertainment. I was Black too, right? Or what did that mean? But now, sitting at the table with my cod fish sandwich in hand, I felt like the 4-year-old on the first day of school tensing up as my teachers struggled to call my name. The American non-American girl. This short, yet convicting conversation was the catalyst to Immigrant Generations, Media, and Audiences. Per her definition of diaspora, I had interpreted that I was not Black American, but something else. Of course, she did not mean to insinuate that I was not Black, but it was the first time in a long time that I had contemplated my racial positionality as a child of immigrants born in the United States and having never traveled to my parents’ homeland, Nigeria. While I had grappled with my identity as a Black woman in America at varying stages of development, I had never wrestled with being both an insider and outsider. Black American, but something else. This volume speaks to the inbetweeness experienced by many Americans who are either immigrants or the first to be born in the United States. Using my personal story as a starting point, I share my experience being in between two cultures, encountering and later internalizing American racial codes, using media to navigate my racialized interpersonal interactions, and finally being able to locate myself in stories told by diasporic creatives. I consider my own racial positionality and experience as a second-generation American of Nigerian descent. In my previous edited volume, Media Across the African Diaspora, I note that there are no concrete definitions of diaspora as some define it by those only descended from the slave trade and others by migration patterns of people groups. Clark (2008) argues that the growing migration of Africans to the Americas reconceptualizes and adds depth to terms like “African-American” when describing first- and/or second-generation Americans who blend the culture of their ancestral and domestic homes. Similarly, Okpalaoka and Dillard (2012) address Black Americans as (African) Americans making the argument that though Black Americans are geographically distant from the African continent, they are still genetically African and Africa is their ancestral land; thus the two groups are inextricably tied, yet their psychosocial development varies. Okpalaoka and Dillard (2012) delineate the differences between Black Americans as Africans who came to the United States by force and Black immigrants from those who moved to the United States to attain a better life. For Black immigrants, their emigration experience and orientation to US culture are different for many reasons—culture shock, language barriers, and intra-racial tensions. For many Black immigrants, ethnicity or

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culture is central to their identity; thus, identification to racial categories is learned. Furthermore, tensions between Black Americans and Black immigrants often arise because of perceptions of superiority—whether internalized or ascribed which has led to the ADOS (American Descendants of Slavery) movement (Stockman, 2019). Although the diasporic journey and acculturation experience of each group is different, Black immigrants are not excluded from the experience of blackness and otherness in the United States (i.e. discrimination, prejudice). In addition to (African) Americans (Black Americans) and foreign-born Americans (Black immigrants), children of African immigrants in the United States also grapple with complex identities. Often second-generation Americans (sometimes referred to as biculture or hybrid kids) feel out of place having to manage the tensions between their families, culture, and their nationality while also legitimizing their heritage and American identity. For immigrants, race and ethnicity are separate, yet coexisting. For American-born children of immigrants, in particular, racial classifications may feel especially confusing. As noted by Awokoya (2012), “African immigrant youth often face many complex identity issues. In some circles, the authenticity of their African identity is questioned; in others, their American experiences are undervalued.” Thus, as a hybrid, growing up in the DMV (Washington DC, Maryland, and Virginia) area among Nigerians, attending majority Black American schools, and engaging with my social world as a person with dark skin and a funny name, I find myself navigating many layers of self which were not necessarily organic, but learned. As I reflect on the contextuality of my racial position, I turn to music, television, and film to unpack my cultural adaptation and adoption of my Black American identity. As there are multiple layers of self, sometimes coherent, other times in conflict with one another, an investigation and narration of the self can be what Boylorn (2008) describes as “messy, contradictory, and complicated” (p. 415). In Boylorn’s (2008) autoethnography, the author examines her interactions with representations of Black women. The author emphasizes the significance of possessing and sharing a critical gaze which resists dominant (read White) narratives and ways of knowing. Boylorn states, “Black women must be willing to critique and challenge popular media images in contrast to their lives and experiences” (p. 415), in order to offer realistic portrayals of Black womanhood or of interest to me, blackness. Navigating through the multiple layers of my identity as a second-generation American, I find myself contemplating the extent to which her call applies

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to someone at my intersection of blackness. I share my story to offer a perspective which accounts for how racialized Black immigrants may engage with entertainment, especially considering the dearth of scholarship on media and acculturation among Africans compared to Latinx, East, and South Asian communities. The aim of this volume is to collect scholarship on the representation of the immigrant experience in media, especially by diasporic communities, as well as record personal narratives from second-generation Americans about their interactions with media representations of their community. This volume is for the immigrants and their children who can appreciate, and at times critique, the nuances in racial identity that immigrant creatives bring to the table. This volume is also for the larger historical framework of our nation which records the work and impact of narratives told by people who have been pushed aside in the telling of the American story. We, too, sing America. I was looking for myself on television, but didn’t realize it until I didn’t see myself. Looking back, I realize the first time I saw some version of myself was in the four episodes Rosalind Cash appeared as Dean Hughes on the series A Different World. Four appearances, across three years. A silver-haired, long locked, regal, sophisticated dean at the fictional Hillman College. She made quite the impression on me. The image of an erudite African American woman with hair texture like mine must have superimposed itself into my mental framework of myself. I ended up being a professor at a primarily White institution proudly wearing my long locks. But even as I look at her now, I don’t see myself.

Between a Place and No Place With migration trends growing across the globe, there is a need for literature which adequately explains the contextual nature of identity formation among immigrants, their children, and future generations. African immigrants, especially, are growing rapidly in the United States and achieving significant success in various labor markets (Migration Policy Institute, 2019). While economic opportunity and stability are likely on the forefront of immigrants’ minds, their own psychosocial and cultural development as well as that of their children are an afterthought, but one that should be explored. Acculturation research helps to explain the process through which foreign-­born individuals learn to cope and adjust to being in a country

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different from their home. According to Berry’s (1997) acculturation theory, an individual’s adaptation or assimilation to a host culture is largely impacted by the strength of their “orientation” toward the host and home country. Scholars generally agree that immigrants in host societies either choose to identify with both cultures (integration), connect with their heritage culture, choose their national identity, or engage in some form of identity paralysis (Berry et al., 2006). Further the decision to integrate or not is largely dependent on one’s social networks. For example, researchers found that Chinese American youth’s ethnic identity was determined by how many American compared to Chinese friends they had (Mok et al., 2007). Ward and Geeraert (2016), however, assert that the traditional model of acculturation does not account for the ebb and flow of identities among immigrants. Further, these dynamics become complex as we consider the identity formation and experiences of immigrants who came as children or were naturalized (first-generation), immigrants who came as teens (1.5 generation), or children born in a host country to adult immigrants (second-generation). Haller and Landolt (2005) describe immigrant generations as transnational communities whose identities exist and are transformed within a “time-space compression”—an elimination of geographic borders facilitated by communication technologies which makes it easier for migrants to maintain connections to their home of origin. As such, each generation has an opportunity to develop “transnational ways of being and belonging.” Each of these groups experiences different stressors which impact their identity, and immigrant youth especially often feel tensions between their ancestral culture and their host culture (Suárez-Orozco, 2001). Moreover, their cultural identities are often questioned by in-group members (Abouguendia & Noels, 2001) which could make it difficult to commit to their home culture. Concurrently, immigrants and their children also face discrimination from their host culture. Such tensions may present challenges to how they define, negotiate, and locate themselves culturally. Whereas Tajfel’s Social Identity Theory (1974) helped to explain the ways in which social groups form to clearly delineate between insiders and outsiders, Turner’s Self-Categorization Theory (1999) explains the navigable contexts individuals engage to manage the various layers of identity which coexist. Immigrant children find themselves in a unique position where they are not either inside or outside, but in both places and neither at the same time. Though not directly targeting immigrants

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and their children, Self-Categorization Theory (SCT) implies that immigrant children have the luxury and burden of choosing the aspects of self which are most salient in a given context. For example, when among Black Americans, an African immigrant might identify more strongly as an African; however, when among White Americans, that person might be hyperaware that they are in fact Black too. Phelan et al.’s (1991) multiple worlds framework may help to explain how immigrant youth and their children navigate their competing contexts: family, school, and peer culture. According to the multiple worlds framework, children learn to adapt to the distinct demands of varying spaces which are “governed by different values and norms.” Whereas acculturation theorists contend that individuals experience adaptation for different settings, Phelan et al. (1991) propose there are different levels of congruency between a child’s home life, school life, and peer relationships which might induce identity conflicts within a cultural hybrid. Sometimes referred to as a bicultural identity, hybrid identities have been defined as a mixture of two or more cultural identities. While significant to understanding identities at the cultural intersections of home and host countries, the concept of hybridity is not without critique. Pindi (2018) argues that hybridity is lacking in a clear definition, describing it as “the obligatory celebration of cultural difference and fusion.” Linking hybridity to globalization trends which see technology and people as cultural embodiments, Kapchan and Strong (1999) critiqued that an inadequate definition of the term “threatens to dissolve difference into a pool of homogenization” (p. 240). Though hybridity could lead to cultural erasure and may demand meaningless commitments to diametric cultures, another perspective considers the nuances that being a cultural hybrid brings to an individual’s perspective as well as their needs for identification. Habecker (2017) proposes a theory of hybrid assimilation which she defines as “a fluid process of creating new identities by merging together aspects of immigrant cultures with American cultures at the boundaries between social groups” (p. 59). Perhaps, as a final destination an immigrant or their US-born children find themselves smack dab in the center of geodemographic borders and systemic racial boundaries and as such exist both within and apart from these constraints. Born of two Nigerian immigrants, I grew up in a household that was distinguished by the customs of a land I wouldn’t visit for 33 years. The language spoken in my home was different. My friends all had names like mine.

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On occasion we wore clothes that were different which often required assistance whether it was tying my buba (skirt) or my gele (headdress). The foods we ate were different from those presented to me in the cafeteria in school. The smell of fried plantain titillating my nostrils takes me back to Tyler House Apartments in Northwest Washington DC where I grew up. When I heard the crackles of the oil in the pan, with the air vent blowing, I knew we were going to eat dodo. As a four-year-old, I found much pleasure in masticating the salty banana-like starch between my small. Whether with fried egg, ewa agoyin (stewed beans), white rice, or fried rice, dodo was always a welcomed and beloved delicacy on my plate at home. This time mommy complimented it with joloff rice when she packed my dinner for after school day-care. I was likely thinking about it all day while in school, while in the cafeteria, making sense of the lunch meat on my plate, and trying to figure out how to open my carton of chocolate milk. Ms. Brown, my baby-sitter lived down the hill from my elementary school so it was an easy walk to her house. Plastic bag in hand, I walked down the hill, waited for the safety guard’s signal and made it to her house safely. Entering Ms. Brown’s house, I would often be hit with a scent, her daughter Christine told me were pigs’ feet or ‘chitlins. It seemed strange to me, though I would later learn it was a popular dish for many Black families in the south. Early evening drew nigh, and it was time to eat dinner. As Ms. Brown warmed up my food, the smell of tomatoes, onions, and chicken bouillon bid the smell of chitlins to a duel. Then the sweet smell of the fried plantains overpowered them both. My mouth was watering. I remember the joy I felt as I uncovered the Tupperware. Dodo was as common to me as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the other kids. I gathered the rice and the dodo in my spoon, took one bite and felt at home. This was soon interrupted when Darnell, Ms. Brown’s teenage son found a seat next to me and asked, “What’s that?” “Dodo!” I exclaimed. “Doo doo?” he asked in jest, referencing the barbaric African stereotype. I corrected him. “Can I taste it?” he asked. I paused. Dodo wasn’t something I typically shared, but in the moment, I wanted to invite this American into my Nigerian world. After being taunted most of the day in school for my name, for an accent that I couldn’t hear, and being asked questions about a continent I had never visited, this was my opportunity to share the goodness of my culture. He is going to taste it and wish he was Nigerian.

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After one bite, Darnell spit the plantain out onto the floor. His rejection of this delicacy was personal. My world and his could never collide, I thought. I didn’t fit here. I never brought plantains to Ms. Brown’s house again. *** Finally, after dreaming since graduate school, I am a Fulbright scholar in Nigeria. I am walking on campus in Ota observing three Nigerian students, gisting and laughing. One exclaims “You dey chop life o!” I understand by the tone of her expression, their smiles, and their responses that she is edifying her friend in a jocular manner. I discern the internalized spiritual belief in the power of the tongue and I critically assess the ways humor is being used to cope with a perhaps unfavorable reality. We lock eyes and smile. I find myself wanting to rejoice with them, but realizing that though I understood, I could not speak the vernacular, even if it was English. My accent alone was a marker, an indicator that I am not part of them. For sure they would assume I was an outsider. And they would be right. I didn’t fit there.

Becoming Black Whereas social identity theory discusses the extent to which some groups are devalued, Ramasubramanian and Banjo (2020) have argued that the theory does not adequately explain the systemic ways that racial categories are constructed which leads to the minoritization or devaluation of some groups over others, especially immigrants. Referencing Gans’ work, Haller and Landolt (2005) explain the ways in which immigrants’ cultural identity is impacted by an environment framed in a “European-derived postcolonial society” (p. 1187). As a result, just as a French woman arrives on American soil and becomes White and will likely have a more pleasant social experience, an African arrives and becomes Black and may have an unpleasant experience. Cross’ (1995) Nigresensce model suggests Blacks in America go through five stages of identity development. Beginning with the pre-­ encounter stage, Cross argues that we are first unaware of our racial identity. Through an encounter stage, we come to a realization of contrast and difference and choose to identify with or reject the Black racial category. During the immersion stage, Cross argued that we invest in discovering aspects of our Black racial self. In emersion, an individual defines for

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herself what blackness is and embraces the multiple ways in which to express Black racial identity. Finally, during the internalization stage an individual holds Blackness in a positive light, cultivating identities rooted in African ancestry. Whereas Cross’ theory applies to descendants of enslaved Africans, it does not adequately explain the process of racialization for Black immigrants and their children. As Benson (2006) contends, research examining the racial identities of Black immigrants fails to consider how the process of racialization varies by native origins. Campbell (2017) claims that making people of color a monolith is “an erasure of cultural identity, experiences, and the fluidity of racial and ethnic identity development.” Reflecting on his experience as an international student, Campbell questions Cross’ “pre-encounter” stage in his own identity development explaining that his lack of awareness of race had less to do with colorblindness and more to do with coming from a place where race was not a concept. Though he was reluctant to identify as Black given his discouragement about the treatment of Black people, Campbell (2017) later entered an internalization stage writing, “As I became conscious of my race, I was not struggling with feelings of anger, frustration, shame, or confusion…I was not angry or frustrated with myself; I was angry and frustrated with how race and racism are perpetuated in all aspects of U.S. culture, institutions, and beliefs. I was also angry and frustrated by the continued silencing of my Jamaican identity” (p.  46). Campbell found himself feeling like he needed to choose between a racial category and his ethnic identity. For children of immigrants the options are much more expansive, having to choose between or navigate racial, ethnic, and cultural identity. Berry et al.’s (2006) model of adaptation suggest that immigrants generally choose to integrate, separate, or remain non-committal but does not seem to account for the psychological impact of the minoritization and marginalization of some identities in societies for which racial hierarchies are prominent. Waters’ work (1994, 1999) has suggested that second-­ generation Black immigrants likely choose to identify as African American, ethnic American, or immigrant. In her work examining generational immigrants, Awokoya (2012) contends that contemporary immigrant youth may subscribe to White mainstream middle class, urban underclass, or ethnic community. In her interviews of African immigrants, Habecker (2017) found that while some in her sample chose to separate from their ethnic heritage, there was also some ambivalence with their identification with Black Americans, not necessarily because of any disparaging attitudes

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toward Black people, but because of a shared racial experience based on skin color. Using the multiple worlds model, Kiramba et al. (2020) examined the ways in which Ghanian-born immigrants in the United States made sense of their identities and navigated their social worlds. The researchers found that while their sample felt motivated by the duality of their family and school life, students in their study experienced racial conflict with peers at school. These findings resonate with Awokoya’s (2012) exploration of 1.5 and second-generation Nigerians where diasporic immigrant youth shared stories of favoritism by White teachers which further deepened the divide between them and Black American students. Nigerians in her sample shared they endured much name-calling such as the infamous “African Booty Scratcher” which suggested that African people were uncivilized and unclean. My parents told me a story: Once I came home in tears. They sat me down to ask me what was causing my grief. According to them, I asked them to change my name, perhaps to something American. “Why do you want to change your name?” they asked. I explained that the kids at school were making fun of me. They would call me Old McDonald or Oklahoma. I don’t quite remember being as sorrowful as my parents said I was. Perhaps this is a testament of the great work they did to counter the narrative that was beginning to form in my mind about my name, and my worth. My father explained the meaning of my name to me: A child who brings joy, he said. My mother explained the story behind choosing my name. My grandfather, Olutayo, wanted to name me after him, but my mother, wanting to honor him while giving me a less masculine name chose to call me Omotayo. My father instructed when the kids tease me again, I should tell them the meaning of my name and ask them the meaning of theirs. That day I felt Nigerian. There was a language that explained my name: Yoruba. There was an attachment to an ancestor I would never meet. There was a culture that was distinct and non-American, and this was the significant difference between me and the Black kids at school. I was Nigerian and they were not. My conception of identity was not a racial one, and it was difficult to see the overarching problem of race when I went to a predominantly Black school and I was being minoritized. ***

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Michael was my friend. He lived in the dorms across from me. We were heading out to our classes one frosty morning, he said hello, and we became friends. Michael was White, and it meant nothing to me. In my first year at Penn State, the Black football players were receiving death threats. Racial tensions arose on campus. Members of the Black Caucus were getting death threats for standing up for the players. It was inevitable that it would reach the students who were not in the spotlight, who were just trying to focus on their exams. Walking back from classes once, I heard a young Black woman shriek. She claimed the White driver of the car that just passed tried to run her over. I didn’t see it with my eyes, and my racial understanding was still being developed, so I hadn’t seen it with my discernment either. But soon I would. Michael and I were walking to class as usual, chatting, and laughing. Suddenly, someone yelled out of his dorm window, “Nigger lover!” and then hid. I almost didn’t hear it. But Michael turned red, and defending me demanded the coward come down and tell us to our faces. Meanwhile, I was engaging in a serious conflict and asking a series of questions: Was he calling me the Nigger? But Nigger is what White people called Black people, and I’m Nigerian. If anything I am what the Nigerians called Akata or what the African Americans called African Booty Scratcher. But how can he know? And what does it matter? And what does this mean? In my father’s land, I am Yoruba. Ijebu, to be specific. Here, I am just another Black girl.

Media and Race-Sensing Framing her work on Phelan’s multiple worlds model, Awokoya (2012) proposes a fourth world through which immigrants make sense of their social identities: media. According to Stuart Hall (2021), “media construct for us a definition of what race is, what meaning the imagery of race carries, and what the problem of a race is understood to be” (p.  170). Symbolic annihilation further explains that limited or no coverage of a racial group subversively erases the groups’ existence and needs from social conscience. Traditionally, film and television in the United States are critical sites through which individuals, immigrants especially, understand race and their place in a society, valued or not. I call this process by which we come to make sense of race through a mediated lens, race-sensing. It is the subsequent subconscious contemplation of our social world as a result of active engagement with mediated text which present racially encoded

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bodies. In line with Hall and in spirit with Frantz Fanon, essayist Carl Hancock Rux (2003) contends that the identity performance of marginalized groups is scripted by dominant groups and oppressive institutions stating, “the oppressed continue to live in the dream of identity, the dream that (in reality) the oppressed are, in fact, Negro, Colored, Black, Minority, Afro or African American…All accepted as real identities. The acceptance of these identities further compels a performance of these identities, whether compliant or rebellious” (p. 19). Put another way, Black people across the diaspora often choose to embody or reject prevailing imagery of blackness often associated with low-status culture. For Black immigrants and their children this is particularly important considering their motivations toward economic mobility, constant identity negotiations within their multiple worlds, and its impact on their relationship with their families, friends, and peers. Regarding identity performance, Judith Butler (2011) argued that we learn different physical expressions to mark our identities as masculine or feminine. A bend of the knee, a toss of the hair, sitting, or standing posture, tentative or direct speech are all ways through which we act out gender. Similarly, race is enacted through the body, speech, and discourse. In her interview and analysis of tweets, Maragh (2018) observed how Black members of twitter monitored in-group members’ interests (likes), speech, and vernacular use, resigning them to “acting white” if the contents of their posts or retweets did not align with Black cultural esthetics. As such, there are boundaries to what blackness is permitted to look like. In her analysis of the popular viral star Antoine Dodson, Johnson (2013) examines Dodson’s fashion choices and his language as a marker of race, class, and sexuality, highlighting the contexts in which he switches between African American Vernacular English (AAVE) and Standard English. Similarly, McCune (2008) observes the ways in which down low (straight) men perform queerness in nightclubs highlighting the layers of two conflicting selves culminating into dissonant performances of racial and sexual identity. As a hybrid, there is also dissonance, a calculated repression of the self along with a selective performance of a contextual identity. As Johnson (2013) states, “inextricably linked to all ways of being, blackness does not belong to one group or individual. However, to mimic the various performances of blackness is to appropriate what it means to be black and enact a black identity” (p. 160). In her study of Black immigrants, Awokoya (2012) found that Nigerian parents’ ideas about Black Americans were influenced by their reliance on television

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news, and as such they became deliberate about distinguishing their children from them. Their children, on the other hand, carried the burden of defying stereotypes of both Black Americans and Africans present in the media. In addition, Awokoya’s (2012) sample shared their need to authenticate their Black Americanness by, taking a cue from media, adjusting their accents and listening to hip-hop in order to avoid rejection from their Black American peers. Race-sensing leads to a reproduction of racial ideologies through racial performance (a willful act) and performativity (a subconscious enactment) (Giardina, 2003). I was three years old, and developing relationships with media characters. One of my favorite shows to watch was Family Ties with my forever big brother, Michael J.  Fox. I later discovered an even more relatable older brother in Malcolm Jamal Warner who played Theo Huxtable in the Cosby Show. Every Thursday at 8 p.m. I sat to watch a show about family, at least to me. As a graduate student, I would learn that for some critics the show, being one of the very few network programs featuring an All-Black cast, did not accurately reflect the socio-economic reality of Black Americans in the inner-city during the crack epidemic. Though we lived below the poverty line within Baltimore city limits, the dissonance between those realities and a prosperous future was not on my radar. The aspiration of a medical doctor husband and lawyer wife made perfect sense, especially to a child of Nigerian immigrants. A decade later, I sat in front of the television at the same time slot to watch the premiere of Martin! starring Martin Lawrence. Martin! was familiar, but foreign. Familiar because he was iconic within Black popular culture. Foreign, because much of his comedic performance did not resonate with how I saw myself. He reminded me of In Living Color, a sketch comedy show I watched diligently for discussion around the lunch table at my all Black school. Fresh Prince. Sister Sister. All That. Jodeci vs. Shai, Mary vs. Toni. All fodder for cafeteria banter Martin! would be added to the list. So I needed to study. I watched at home, and laughed with the live audience. The next day classmates would chat about last night’s episode, reciting comical lines. It would occur to me that I understood, but didn’t understand. I was an outsider, learning the necessary codes to interpret the humor, and finally being able to derive enjoyment on my own. For example, when Martin leads a solo after Tommy gives his eulogy for the plumber presumed dead, I laugh because of the violation of expectation and my familiarity with Martin! as the jester who sings with very limited vocal skill. With time, I learned the cultural code rooted in the spiritual expressions of the traditional Black church which I did

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not attend until college and begin to appreciate this scene differently. With experience, I develop reference points which packs a special punch to the joy growing in my belly. I was most perplexed by Martin’s relationship with Pam. Growing up I’d heard about people “jivin’” on one another. I would learn about the dozens in school, but as a pre-teen they were just incessant unsolicited insults between friends. I didn’t understand that kind of friendship. Until I saw one. I was 18  years old now in college watching the gospel choir director and the keyboardist hurl insults about each other’s lips, eyes, singing voices, glasses, and grandmas. Every time the two of them got together people watched, laughed, and scored their insults against each other. Martin and Pam. I understand now. To some extent, I was bothered by the stereotypical representations in shows like Martin. However, in retrospect, I realize I adopted some of these characteristics when interacting with my Black American friends. I learned to mimic this style of communication when I was being humorous or delivering a joke, and developed an alternate ego. One that was loud, at times demonstrative in speech, danced in response to good news, and used colloquialisms like “Hol’ up!” “You go girl!”, “Stompin’ with the big dawgs” and “bruh man” to describe strange men. In those performative moments, I stood outside of myself and became both spectacle and audience, feeling somewhat dissonant within myself while feeling connected to something bigger than me. Yet, my elocution and performance was always under scrutiny. *** Since I was three, Nigerian films scared me. My father would tell me I could learn a lot about life from watching movies about women pressured to bear men sons and people in different kinds of spiritual bondage. I also did not have six hours to commit to watching several parts to one film. So I stopped. That was the 80s. Modern Nigerian films were much more metropolitan, their characters, a bit more Westernized, like me. But still very Naija, unlike me. I couldn’t relate, but wanted to. I wanted to playfully insult my Nigerian friends with terms like “raz boy”, or invite them to gossip by exclaiming “gist me now!” I wish I could speak pidgin with the right amount of Lagos that when I expressed, “no wahala”, they wouldn’t take a second look to inquire about my authenticity.

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As a mother, to my American Nigerian daughter, I find myself performing the stereotypical Nigerian mother I watched in Nollywood films as a child. One who yells, is easily frustrated, holds the top of her head in worry, and slaps the back of her left hand into her right palms to display exasperation. I am so much a caricature that even my daughter finds me entertaining, not threatening as a child growing up in Nigeria might find such a mother. Still something is off. This is not me, completely. My inbetweeness was still nowhere to be found onscreen.

I Am an African Booty Scratcher (Nigerian Is the New Cool) Sierra Leonean-American Nikyatu Jusu visually depicts the internal conflicts between American-born children and their African parents in her short film African Booty Scratcher (2007). Set in New York, a hub for the Black diaspora, the film follows the journey of a young second-generation American teenager, Isatu, as she navigates her multiple worlds at an all-­ Black school, her Sierra Leonean home, and her peer group. Jusu describes the film as “a coming of age story [where] West African tradition conflicts with American idealism” which leaves the main character grappling with her identity commitments. The film juxtaposes the very clear ethnic orientations of her Sierra Leonean mother and her Americanized daughter. We meet her mother talking on a long-distance phone call to Isatu’s father in their native tongue, wearing native clothing, and cooking joloff rice. Isatu, on the other hand, speaks with an identifiable New York accent and upon returning from school expressed a preference for spaghetti instead. Isatu rejects the native clothes her mother sewed for prom and her mother quips, “You know people here in America name themselves, Kenya, Egypt or something…You don’t even want to know how to cook joloff rice.” Here, her mother calls out her second-generation daughter’s desire to distance herself from her culture and ultimately from her mother while Black Americans are seeking to connect with the motherland. In her most recent stand up special, Momma I Made it (2020), Yvonne Orji makes reference to this pejorative term while celebrating that being “Nigerian is the new cool.” In making this statement, Orji delivers a rhetorical contrast between a word meant to dehumanize Africans and the economic and cultural success of Black immigrants in the United States. In 2016, Damilare Sonoki, a 1.5 generation American and former writer

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for Black-ish, produced a show with the pejorative term as its title. The show whose title was later changed to African Time centers on Ayodeji, a 1.5 generation American and his family. Similar to Orji, Sonoki draws a similar contrast between the shaming of his ethnicity while growing up and the current success of Nigerian-Americans like Tyler the Creator and rapper Jidenna. Though the show began to gain some traction, the development of the show was not well funded and thus halted. These contrasts draw our attention to the role that bicultural representation and transnational media play in identity negotiations and ultimately pride. Because of them, I rest in my cultural ambivalence embracing the conflicts within my racial self, knowing I am seen as a nigger to in America, an Americana to African people, and an African Booty Scratcher to Black people. My mother’s favorite TV show was Judge Judy. Her favorite American film was Life because of the corn bread scene. I pen this letter to my first-­ generation mom who couldn’t find herself on American television so she resorted to watching Nigerian movies on cassettes, DVDs, and ultimately YouTube. Dear mother, It’s too late to say this to you because you have been deceased 8 years now, but I feel the need to apologize to you. If not in person, at least in my heart I would have confessed to you all the times I felt embarrassed by your difference. For example, the time that you attended a banquet with me in celebration for some scholastic award I received. We sat at the dining table, salad and rolls in front of us. I didn’t know salads preceded a main course. We always just ate rice. I wasn’t sure what to do with this green stuff on a plate, and I was nervous that you may have felt the same. I watched others. This is when I learned about French Dressing. Thank God for French Dressing. I poured that orange stuff on my plate of green stuff and could eat the salad. For you, salad was not food. You reached over for the rolls, used your butter knife to dress the crust of the bread instead of cutting it and spreading it on the fluffy part. You liked the bread. You reached for more, and more until they ran out and we asked for more. I could see your discomfort. Your academically excellent daughter succeeded so well she brought you to a table of her American peers to feast on salad, and later a small chicken breast with mashed potatoes and gravy. This was not a meal for us. But I was willing to learn. I needed to learn. Knowing your strength and work ethic, I never imagined I would be embarrassed. But I was silently fighting a battle to protect you from

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appearing uncivilized and protect myself from feeling ethnic in this American space. This Black American space. But you didn’t need my protection. You had fought your own battles. With time, you would learn how to eat salad which was not a norm for you. But in this moment, you can eat bread and be okay. Mother, You would be proud of me. I make people pronounce my name correctly. I pack my daughter joloff rice and dodo for lunch. I offer to make my Black American friends yam with your sardine stew. I wear the native that Aunti sewed for me when I teach. When I introduce myself to my students I tell them about you and my father and the significance of my name. I use your story and mine to deconstruct unmoving ideals of race. I am grateful for this story and the perspective it gives me. I am grateful for the opportunity to be in my own Black immigrant daughter skin and complicate my student’s assessment of me. Like other Black educators, I receive harsh critiques or judgments about my mood or kindness, but every now and then I get called derogatory names for being African especially. And it’s okay by me. I carry your story with and in me. You were not ashamed. I am not ashamed of you. I am not ashamed because of you.

Concluding Reflections The construct of race in the United States forces immigrants and their children into limiting categories—one that does not account for the complexity of being and the intersectionality of their lived experiences. As a child of Nigerian immigrants and with parental cultural coaxing, I assumed a non-American identity. One that was not defined by my skin color, but by the language I heard at home, the name I possessed and how I was named, the foods that were commonplace for me, but foreign to others, and by a dream or fear of returning someday to the land which bred my parents, but may not accept me. At the same time, having been cultivated on American soil, I also developed ideas, beliefs, dictions, and a language which conflicted with my mother’s land, and thus caused much internal conflict, but one that can be negotiated. Though there are prevailing modes of blackness in the United States, the boundaries of race are consistently being challenged and negotiated, and even more so in contemporary media.

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Our understandings of what it is to be an American, what is to be White, Black, Asian, or Latinx are often dictated by the depictions of these groups onscreen. Blacks and Latinx are “naturally” loud and inarticulate. Asians are all Chinese, smart and tech savvy, and White people can be anything. As audiences, we learn who we are and who we are not and imbibe racial codes. Over the past decade, immigrants and second-generation narratives and storytellers have become more salient arguably because of the affordances of technology as well as the increase in ownership. Such stories and storytellers expand the possibilities of racial identity and provide a model of internalization (Boylorn, 2017), one that is both proud to be a member of racial group and fully committed to the ambivalence of one’s cultural identity. As such, this volume explores how immigrants and their children perform and negotiate these codes in order to navigate multiple worlds. As creators become more educated, advocacy groups demand better representations, technology advances, and minority ownership increases, more complicated layers of identity are offered and counter the limiting master narrative of racial identity. With hybrid identities onscreen, with minoritized immigrant stories being told by them and their children through literary and visual art, the boundaries of race become extended. The power that mediated platforms have to decolonize minds and liberate identities should not be overlooked or underestimated. As Giardina (2003) challenged “we must acknowledge the promise of multiple subjectivities and diverse cultural traditions. In short, we must ask how popular culture can help us create a critical race and gender consciousness for the 21st century” (pp. 78–79). Thus, the work of media scholarship should continue to investigate the impact of media on identities, not just within the confines of socially constructed limiting categories, but through the complicated, multiple layers of an immigrant’s narrative.

The Edited Volume: Immigrant Generations, Media, and Audiences International migration to North America and Western Europe is higher than it was during the end of the nineteenth century (Schwartz et  al., 2010). Concurrently there have been numerous initiations of immigration ban policies and marches and violent acts by nationalists in the United States, England, New Zealand, and even in India. As nationalism grows

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around the globe and anti-immigration sentiments increase, it is even more important to examine the connections between mediated images and the identity experiences of immigrants and their children. Prevailing imagery of immigrants in news, film, and television reveal a bias against foreigners portraying them as criminals, illegitimate, and a threat to the welfare of American-born (read White) citizens which impact social attitudes toward immigrants (Esses et al., 2013; Lawlor & Tolley, 2017; Schemer, 2012). It is for this reason that ownership of narratives about immigrant life is critical to media studies as well as audience reception, as we explore how immigrants and their children interpret these texts and may use it as a socialization agent. Programs like the Patriot Act (2018), Master of None (2015), or Little America (2020) create space for those who are between a place and no place. Whereas some scholars explore transnational media as products crossing geographic borders, and others examine ethnic media as media products created by and for different language groups in the United States, this volume also considers media created by diasporic communities centered on immigrant life. It has already been established that immigrants use American media to assimilate via language acquisition and proficiency (Dalisay, 2012; Kim, 1977) or to learn how to be American (Somani, 2011). However, this volume engages questions about media created by or about immigrants and immigrant generations, though not necessarily exclusive to them. This volume also addresses the decision making that goes into content creation as well as audience reflections. Johnson’s (2010) work presents a case that media content centered on immigrant life meets an identity need and is thus critical to our examination of such programming. Scholarship on transnational audiences typically reveal immigrants’ motivations to stay connected to their homeland through native media as they feel displaced in their host country (Peeters & D’Haenens, 2005; Shumow, 2010) or to create new identities in which they can distinguish themselves from majority culture (Oh, 2012). Ramasubramanian and Doshi (2017) identify “ethnic performance” as another significant motivation for seeking out native media. Studies reveal that ethnically targeted programming has the ability to develop ethnic identity, positive self-esteem, ethnic pride, and coping strategies among immigrants and their children (Lin & Song, 2006; Oh, 2011; Ramasubramanian et al., 2017; Subervi-Velez, 1986). Etchegaray and Correa (2015) examined media consumption among immigrants in Chile and found that while less than half of immigrants watched media from their home country, a majority expressed concern

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that the host country had portrayed their group unfairly. Through the process of identification, we come to understand the importance of visibility and the gravity of representation for immigrant generations. Ang (1990) strongly argued that in an increasing globalized interconnected world yielding transnational audiences, it is important that we capture the multiple interpretive strategies and expressions of being and belonging between borders, especially through ethnography or observations. The aim of this anthology is to make space for scholarship which examines how first- and second-generation hybrids engage with mediated narratives or media personas about the immigrant experience (i.e. cultural adjustments, language use, inside jokes). This anthology also aims to explore the different ways first- and second-generation audiences utilize such narratives or media personas to negotiate and at times reconceptualize their American identity. In the poem, I, Too, Langston Hughes calls the operational definitions of nationality and authenticity into question. While a racial majority exists, the author insists that he is also part of the fabric from which this great nation is fashioned. Hughes wittily chastises the practice of shaming, marginalizing, and illegitimating the Other while validating his contributions, his worth, and beauty. I reference this poem as a foundation for an anthology which aims to make room at the table for a group that has been pushed to the margins, yet are critical to the fabric of American culture and storytelling—immigrants and their children. This book is organized in three parts Representation: Foreign Realities Onscreen, Content Creation: Industry Concerns and Constraints, and Audience Reflections and Responses. The first five chapters describe the possibilities of film, television, and literature in presenting authentic immigrant narratives centered on an immigrant’s adaptation instead of pushing them to the background. It is notable that such authentic representations of immigrant life in these chapters are written, directed, or produced by diasporic creatives. In Chap. 2, Hassencahl analyzes a film written by a Russian immigrant and a film written decades later by a Syrian-born American to illustrate processes of cultural adaptation, showing how the characters in each film advance through Oberg’s Stages of Being Foreign. Though the inception of the film industry began with immigrant audiences, the narrative of immigrant life has been somewhat muted in contemporary times. Hassencahl brings to our attention the ways in which film, like literature, can transport viewers into a foreign world—one experienced by foreigners to the United States. An implication of her textual analysis is that visual narratives which

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put forth the realities of cultural adaptation and identity negotiations can foster identification among maladjusted individuals and could cultivate empathy for an otherwise stigmatized group. In contrast, Park (Chap. 3) discusses how two Korean women use literature to share their accounts of adaptation stating that their books display “their divergent pictures of American life from what the myth of American mobility suggests for many others.” Whereas popular imagery of Asian assimilation suggests easy integration, these authors present the challenges of intersectionality in economic mobility among Korean immigrant women. Chapters 4, 5, and 6 engage the ways in which television offers counternarratives to public opinions of immigrants. In Chap. 4, Grant and Markovich explain how the reboot of Party of Five (Freeform) is a televisual response to a host of political threats toward Latinx communities. Through the lenses of transnational feminism and nostalgic culture, Grant and Markovich unpack the geopolitical background against which a show which was once dominated by White majority characters is now centered on Latinx communities. As such, the show reveals issues present among immigrants and their children, namely, families fractured by borderlines, negations between national and ethnic identity, and resisting or embracing Western assimilation. Grant and Markovich conclude that Party of Five offers humanistic depictions of the Latinx community during a time in which asylum seekers were separated from their children who were housed in concentration camps in 2018. These depictions, Grant and Markovich argue, serve to resist “stereotypes, government policies, and global understandings of migration, p. 81.” Evans-Zepeda and Garcia (Chap. 5) further the discourse-centered Latinx immigration experiences by examining the shows Jane the Virgin (Freeform) and another reboot, One Day at a Time. The authors use both shows to illustrate tensions between immigrant and citizen statuses and the real fears of deportation and familial disintegration. Furthermore, the authors argue that the show, unlike other text, aims to politically empower their audiences through social media campaigns like #immigrationreform or #vote, #vote, #vote. Chapter 6 examines the television show, Bob Hearts Abishola (CBS), one of the first, if not the only television show centered on an African immigrant. Similar to Grant, Frederick, Nwachukwu, and Banjo explore the ways in which the show humanizes a Nigerian immigrant. However, the researchers critique that in some ways the show’s producers Chuck Lorre (White male) and Gina Yashere (British Nigerian) rely on tropes about Africans and Black Americans which could be often. The authors argue that the sitcom does not resist stereotypes, but might reinforce

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them, while at the same time shedding insight into the motives and burdens of a Sub-Saharan African immigrant to the United States. Unlike the prevailing images of immigrants as violent or of Nigerians as scammers (419), the show presents an image of a hard-working immigrant who negotiates their status in their native land for more opportunity for their families in the United States. The following chapters engage questions of decision making which play significant roles in the stories told by immigrant generations. As seen with shows like Bob Hearts Abishola, immigrants could have opportunities to play a critical role in the telling of their stories; nonetheless, economic and cultural constraints present challenges in how these stories are told. Some are successful, while others are not. Shifting from West Africa to North Africa, Peter Johnson (Chap. 7) examines how comedian, Egyptian American Ramy Yousseff is portrayed in a show based on his life and with consideration for market constraints. The show Ramy, which airs on a streaming site Hulu, is also innovative in that it is one of the first shows to center on a Muslim character—another group which had suffered discrimination from an administration whose bans targeted Muslim countries. According to Johnson, the show offers audiences an inside look into everyday Islamic practices, while telling an intergenerational coming of age story about high school freshman within the context of post-9/11 sentiments. However, Johnson critiques that complexity of the narrative is limited by licensing and branding strategies which prevent the full strength of the narrative. Johnson contends that “the profit drive inherent in capitalism and the desire to earnestly represent marginalized identities are contradictory motivations—unless such identities can be commodified or appropriately branded, p. 152” exemplifying the kinds of constraints immigrant creatives could face when trying to present authentic and humanizing stories. In Chap. 8, Galarza and Rodríguez present a perhaps successful attempt by Disney to feature more authentic representations of Mexican culture by examining the role of cultural translators in the film, Coco. The authors detail the controversies that positioned Disney to tread carefully in how they approach stories centered on Latinx culture and the measures taken to correct their mistakes. In addition, the authors examine how Disney’s acquisition of Pixar impacted the production of Coco. The film’s achieved global success is an indicator of not just the value of including immigrants in content creation, but also the value of second-generation

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Latinx-American communities serves as a bridge between an ancestral and assimilated culture. The concluding chapters interrogate audience responses and offer self-­ reflective essays on the interaction with content centered on immigrant and second-generation lived experiences. David Stamps (Chap. 9) uses Community Cultural Wealth as a framework which emphasizes the value of marginalized peoples owning their story to analyze user-generated comments to Yvonne Orji’s web series, First Gen. In Chap. 10, Charisse L’Pree Corsbie-Massay reflects on the impact of Margaret Cho’s All-­ American Girl on priming the Asian part of her Caribbean and Asian identity. Offering an analysis of the show, the author identifies the ways in which the televisual narrative resonated with her personal experiences and thus affirmed her identity as an Asian, in spite of appearing racially Black. Similar to Corsbie-Massay, in “Between a Banana and a Coconut: Reflections on Being Second-Generation American on the Periphery” (Chap. 11), Diane Nititham offers reflections on how she and her friends sought, embraced, and rejected narratives centered on second-generation Americans. In her reflection, Nititham discloses the internal conflicts she battled while negotiating an identity put on through her consumption of primarily White spaces and her desire to see more positive representations of Asian Americans in television. In Chap. 12, “Language, Telenovelas, and Citizenship: A Mexican Immigrant’s Exploration of First-Generation American Narratives in Jane The Virgin,” Litzy Galarza draws on Andrea Pitts’ (2016) discussion of Gloria Anzaldúa’s autohistoria-teoría to illustrate how media portrayals of Latinas in JTV have informed how she understands herself as a child of immigrants and makes sense of her parents’ experiences which had implications for how she navigated her family roles and social world. In Shafiqur Rahman’s (Chap. 13) “Mixing and Re-making: The Identity of Second-Generation Bangladeshis in the United States,” the author details the cultural negotiations, tensions, and media messages children born to Bangladeshi immigrants are forced to engage, making the case that second-generation Bangladeshi-Americans endure more strenuous processes of identity formation. Moreover, Rahman argues “that second-generation Bangladeshi-Americans ha[ve] to articulate their identity negotiating media representations of Islam and Muslims in news media and popular culture, p. 273.” While the impacts of US-mediated representations of Muslims can be harmful to their identities, Rahman also explores the utility of transnational media products

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which affirm Bangladeshi-Americans connection an ancestral land and culture similar to what they experience at home. In Chap. 14, “Strega Nona: The Spell on Identities,” Violetta Ravagnoli reflects on her American-born children’s interaction with a popular Italian fable, Strega Nona. The author shares a personal account of her children who are second-generation Italian-Americans grappling with their identities as Americans or Italian. Approaching migration as an “intricate web of networks and corridors that link migrant’s experience to the country of origin as well as to the host communities, p. XX,” Ravagnoli analyzes “the ebbs and flows of migration stories and identity formation of two second-­ generations in comparison” [and] “hopes to demonstrate the flexibility of identity, often conditioned by situationally driven needs, constrained desires and transnational movements.” Lastly, Precious Yamaguchi (Chap. 15) interviews relatives of the central character of the film American Pastime (2007), a film centered on Japanese internment camps. In her analysis of the film, discussion with the writer, and engagement with family members she breaks down the varied generational experiences of Japanese Americans, especially those born before or during World War II. Together the contents of this volume describe the power of media in telling immigrant stories, as well as offers insight into the value of such stories on how immigrants and their children cope with navigating their identity formation and negotiations. As immigrant generations expand in ownership and distribution, as well as gain more access to platforms in which they can tell their American stories, they create space for bicultural immigrants who find themselves floating between a place and no place. Their stories become part of the American story, and finally they can see themselves beyond the confines of color and outside the boundaries of national borders.

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Oh, D. C. (2012). Mediating the boundaries: Second-generation Korean American adolescents’ use of transnational Korean media as markers of social boundaries. International Communication Gazette, 74(3), 258–276. Okpalaoka, C. L., & Dillard, C. B. (2012). (Im) migrations, relations, and identities of African peoples: Toward an endarkened transnational feminist praxis in education. Educational Foundations, 26, 121–142. Peeters, A.  L., & d’Haenens, L. (2005). Bridging or bonding? Relationships between integration and media use among ethnic minorities in the Netherlands. Communications, 30(2), 201–231. https://doi.org/10.1515/ comm.2005.30.2.201. Phelan, P., Davidson, A.  L., & Cao, H.  T. (1991). Students’ multiple worlds: Negotiating the boundaries of family, peer, and school cultures. Anthropology & Education Quarterly, 22(3), 224–250. https://doi.org/10.1525/ aeq.1991.22.3.05x1051k. Pindi, G. N. (2018). Hybridity and identity performance in diasporic context: An autoethnographic journey of the self across cultures. Cultural Studies↔ Critical Methodologies, 18(1), 23–31. https://doi.org/10.1177/1532708617735636. Ramasubramanian, S., & Banjo, O. O. (2020). Critical media effects framework: Bridging critical cultural communication and media effects through power, intersectionality, context, and agency. Journal of Communication, 70(3), 379–400. https://doi.org/10.1093/joc/jqaa014. Ramasubramanian, S., & Doshi, M. J. (2017). Ethnic performance, language proficiency, and ethnic media use among Indian American immigrants. Journal of International and Intercultural Communication, 10(3), 183–200. https:// doi.org/10.1080/17513057.2016.1272707. Ramasubramanian, S., Doshi, M.  J., & Saleem, M. (2017). Mainstream versus ethnic media: How they shape ethnic pride and self-esteem among ethnic minority audiences. International Journal of Communication, 11, 21. Rux, C. H. (2003). Eminem: The new white Negro. In G. Tate (Ed.), Everything but the burden: What white people are taking from black culture (pp.  15–38). New York: Harlem Moon. Schemer, C. (2012). The influence of news media on stereotypic attitudes toward immigrants in a political campaign. Journal of Communication, 62(5), 739–757. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1460-­2466.2012.01672.x. Schwartz, S.  J., Unger, J.  B., Zamboanga, B.  L., & Szapocznik, J. (2010). Rethinking the concept of acculturation: Implications for theory and research. American Psychologist, 65(4), 237. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0019330. Shumow, M. (2010). A foot in both worlds: Transnationalism and media use among Venezuelan immigrants in South Florida. International Journal of Communication, 4, 21.

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Somani, I.  S. (2011). The American filter. Asian Journal of Communication, 21(4), 321–337. https://doi.org/10.1080/01292986.2011.559259. Stockman, F. (2019, November 13). Deciphering ADOS: A new social movement or online trolls? New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/2019/11/13/reader-­center/slavery-­descendants-­ados.html Suárez-Orozco, M. (2001). Globalization, immigration, and education: The research agenda. Harvard Educational Review, 71(3), 345–366. https://doi. org/10.17763/haer.71.3.7521rl25282t3637. Subervi-Velez, F. A. (1986). The mass media and ethnic assimilation and pluralism: A review and research proposal with special focus on Hispanics. Communication Research, 13(1), 71–96. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 009365028601300105. Tajfel, H. (1974). Social identity and intergroup behaviour. Information (International Social Science Council), 13(2), 65–93. https://doi. org/10.1177/053901847401300204. Turner, J. C. (1999). Some current issues in research on social identity and self-­ categorization theories. Social Identity: Context, Commitment, Content, 3(1), 6–34. Ward, C., & Geeraert, N. (2016). Advancing acculturation theory and research: The acculturation process in its ecological context. Current Opinion in Psychology, 8, 98–104. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.copsyc.2015.09.021. Waters, M.  C. (1994). Ethnic and racial identities of second-generation black immigrants in New York City. International Migration Review, 28(4), 795–820. https://doi.org/10.1177/019791839402800408. Waters, M. C., & Lamont, M. (1999). Explaining the comfort factor: West Indian immigrants confront American race relations. In M.  Lamont (Ed.), The cultural territories of race: Black and white boundaries (pp.  63–96). Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

PART I

Representation: Foreign Realities Onscreen

CHAPTER 2

Stages of Being Foreign as Portrayed in The Citizen and Moscow on the Hudson Fran Hassencahl To be wholly or in part ‘out of place’ everywhere, not to be completely anywhere (that is without qualifications and caveats, without some aspects of oneself ‘sticking out’ and seen by others as looking odd) may be an upsetting, sometimes annoying experience. There is always something to explain, to apologize for, to hide or on the contrary to boldly display, to negotiate, to bid for and to bargain for; there are differences to be smoothed or glossed over, or to be on the contrary made more salient and legible…. The more one practices and masters the difficult skills needed to get by in such an admittedly ambivalent condition. The less sharp and hurting the rough edges feel, the less overwhelming the challenges and the less irksome the effects. One can even begin to feel everywhere chez soi, ‘at home’-but the price to be paid is to accept that nowhere will one be fully and truly at home. (Bauman, 2004, pp. 13–14)

According to the UN Refugee Agency (UNCHR) the world currently has the largest ever number of displaced individuals. Some 79.5 million people have been forced from their homes. Refugees number 26 million, and forty percent of these individuals are under the age of 18 (2020, n.p.).

F. Hassencahl (*) Old Dominion University, Norfolk, VA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_2

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Media images of their plight show these individuals in squalid refugee camps. They travel on foot, trains, and boats risking their lives to escape war, famine, persecution, and economic deprivation and navigate the legal processes for family reunification. A few lucky ones cross boundaries by airplane. The issues of acceptance, resettlement, and regulation of this human flow have become the basis of major political debates in Asia, Europe, and the United States. Currently with the introduction of COVID-19, a worldwide pandemic, nations have closed their borders to immigrants. Individuals who work with these refugees see these individuals’ experience The Stages of Being Foreign, a model developed by anthropologist Kalervo Oberg and widely used in the communication field. Lewis and Jungman (1986) assume that literature reflects life and compiled a selection of short stories that reflect each of the Stages of Being Foreign. In this chapter, I investigate two films that tell the stories of immigrants to America. Moscow on the Hudson (1984), one of 13 films written and directed by second-generation American Paul Mazursky for Columbia Pictures, and The Citizen (2013), a first film directed by Syrian-­ born Sam Kadi, are examined to see if these films, like literature, reflect the immigrant experience as we know it or perhaps as we think we know it, since as Mukherjee (1999) points out, “the narrative of immigration calls to mind crowded tenements, Ellis Island, sweatshops, accents, strange foods, taxicab drivers, bizarre holidays, strange religions, unseemingly ethnic passions” (Mukherjee, 1999, p. 79). What these traditional narratives fail to emphasize is that most immigrants experience a process of intercultural adaptation. The newcomers experience stages of acculturation and sometimes culture shock and progress to a stage where they become competent in navigating the new culture. These two films do not sugarcoat immigrants’ struggles or show them as Mukherjee’s characterization of them as exotic creatures but rather as ordinary individuals managing the journey to intercultural adaptation. Moscow on the Hudson (1984) features the late Robin Williams who plays Vladimir Ivanov, a musician with the Moscow Circus, who defects in Bloomingdale’s department store when the circus performs in New York City. Egyptian actor Khalid El Nabawy plays the role of Ibrahim Jarrah, a Lebanese immigrant, armed with a business degree and considerable optimism about finding success in America. l apply the model of the Stages of Being Foreign to these two films and describe how the main characters experience the five stages. It is valuable for viewers to see Vladimir and

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Ibrahim as agents who are empowered to leave behind old identities and craft new ones. This process of change occurs in stages. Knowing these stages can help immigrants and others better understand how immigrants navigate a new culture. It can prepare the immigrant and any agencies working with immigrants to signpost where the immigrant is at a particular moment in this process of intercultural adaptation.

Stages of Being Foreign, a Theoretical Perspective The model of the Stages of Being Foreign has evolved as scholars attempt to describe the processes of intercultural interactions experienced by those who work or study in a different culture. This has led to a spinoff of practical manuals, training, and college courses, and advice to help individuals understand their experiences and emotions that arise from these interchanges. The goal is to help them cope and become like Professor Bauman, who was forced to immigrate from Poland to the United Kingdom, become somewhat at home in a new culture. At the foundation of these experiences is the potential experience of culture shock, which may immobilize immigrants and make it difficult, but not impossible, for them to adjust to a new culture. Sojourners can measure their increased facility and comfort in a new culture by how successfully they navigate those rough edges and overwhelming experiences that Bauman describes. The term culture shock formally originated in the field of anthropology and was first used by Cora Dubois, an American anthropologist, who specialized in field work in Indonesia. In 1960, anthropologist Kalervo Oberg published an article, “Culture Shock and the Problem of Adjustment in New Cultural Environments,” in Practical Anthropology. He, too, wanted to help anthropologists and technicians adjust to a new culture in their first experience working outside the United States. Born to Finnish immigrant parents in British Columbia, Oberg was a first-generation scholar who worked for various universities and US government agencies in Brazil, Peru, and Surinam. He was particularly interested in development issues, and his final overseas assignment was working on a project with the US Mission in 1959–1963 in Surinam researching peasant communities and laying the groundwork for planning projects in agriculture and fisheries. Oberg (1954) characterized culture shock by using the metaphor of “an occupational disease” experienced by those who have been “transplanted abroad.” He characterized those individuals as “a fish out of water” who experience anxiety by losing the familiar signs and symbols of

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social intercourse (p. 2). Everyday experiences such as saying “hello” and “goodbye,” tipping behavior, dress, the customs around eating unfamiliar foods, and bathroom usages become major difficulties to overcome. Not wishing to be the “Ugly American/European/Asian, etc.,” individuals who generally see themselves as open minded and somewhat culturally aware are anxious, even fearful, withdrawn, or sometimes become aggressive or complainers. They often conclude that their familiar home country is superior. Oberg does not despair, because fortunately these “ailments” have their “own, etiology, symptoms and cure” (Oberg, Speech, August 3, 1954). Oberg discusses four stages of culture shock. Fellow anthropologists modified it, and the model has become the basis for cross-cultural training and to prepare individuals to study, work abroad in either for a salary or in a volunteer capacity, or to serve in the armed forces. Most research focuses upon issues arising from students’ study abroad and American Peace Corps assignments where some 30–40 percent of the volunteers return to the United States before completing their required two years. Gary R. Weaver, editor of Culture, Communication and Conflict (2000) and faculty member at the School of International Service at American University, indicates that experiencing culture shock and not being able to overcome it, in addition to other factors such as health issues and disagreements with the managers of projects, are major factors in these drop-out rates. While these overseas experiences are not a focus of this chapter, these concerns are still researched and discussed in the literature. For example, the 2018 article by I. Cupsa titled “Culture Shock and Identity” and Slonim-Nevo and Regev’s (2016) research on asylum seekers from Darfur in 2016 indicate that culture shock continues to be a major factor in the adjustment of immigrants and those who work overseas. Textbooks in intercultural communication continue to address issues of culture shock. Oberg drew upon his field work experiences and observed four stages in the process of culture shock. This chapter examines those stages and the subsequent refinements made by other anthropologists and applies these stages to the experience of immigration as seen in the two chosen films. No studies have applied Oberg’s stages of culture shock to the immigrant and refugee experience on-screen.

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Oberg’s Stages: The Four Processes of Culture Shock Oberg (1954) labels the first stage, the spectator stage, as the honeymoon stage which may last a few days or perhaps for six months. Short termers are “fascinated by the new,” stay in hotels, and associate with nationals who speak their language. Oberg adds the proviso, “If one is a very important person, he or she will be shown the show places, will be pampered and petted” (p. 3). With such favorable experiences, these visitors speak favorably about their hosts to the press and to colleagues when they return home. Individuals who stay longer may find that they lose this support system and being on their own will pass through the other stages. The second stage of Increasing Participation begins when individuals find that they must cope “with real conditions of life.” Adjustment issues arise and individuals begin to feel angry and critical of the host country. There is maid trouble, school trouble, house trouble, transportation trouble, shopping trouble, and the fact that people in the host country are largely indifferent to all these troubles. They help but they just don’t understand your great concern over these difficulties. Therefore, they must be insensible and unsympathetic to you and your worries. (pp. 3–4)

Rather than owning these problems and seeking solutions, some individuals blame the host country for their problems. If it is not possible to leave the country, they may resort to stereotyping and regress into glorifying everything about America. This has consequences, because citizens of the host country “will sense this hostility and, in many cases, respond in either a hostile manner or try to avoid you.” Oberg regrets that not much research has been done on the phenomena of culture shock; thus, there are few guidelines to follow for those wishing to help the sojourner. At this point, the individual begins to experience the symptoms of the third stage, what Oberg (1954) labels Culture Shock. Some of the symptoms of culture shock are: excessive washing of the hands; excessive concern over drinking water, food, dishes, and bedding; fear of physical contact with attendants or servants; the absent-minded, far-away stare (sometimes called the tropical stare); a feeling of helplessness and a desire for dependence on long-term residents of one’s own nationality; fits of anger over delays and other minor frustrations; delay and outright refusal to learn the language of the host country; excessive fear of being cheated,

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robbed or injured; great concern over minor pains and eruptions of the skin; and finally that terrible longing to be back home. (p. 2)

Options to resolve culture shock include starting to learn the language and finding the humor in situations. “You adapt yourself to water and power shortages and to traffic problems.” He reminds his audience that the environment does not change, but rather your attitude to the environment changes. In short, you learn to better communicate and get along under a new set of living conditions. At this point the newcomers enter the adjustment stage which is a process leading to the fourth stage. In the fourth stage, adaptation, the individual begins to accept the customs of the country without passing judgment and begin to “enjoy” the country’s foods, habits, and customs. Oberg cautions that the problems of adjustment are real. Here will be misunderstandings and frustrations and “intestinal disturbances” (Oberg, 1954, p. 5). In the fourth stage the individual becomes more productive. This does not mean that one could not revert to culture shock, because new problems can arise. Having had some success at coping, individuals generally regain their focus and continue in the adaptation stage.

Advancing the Stages of Being Foreign Additional scholars have modified and expanded upon Oberg’s model, and culture shock discussions are included in intercultural communication textbooks and in materials provided for individuals who work or study overseas. Kohls (1984), a founding member of the Society for Intercultural Education, Training and Research (SIETAR), recognized as an NGO by the United Nations and the Council of Europe, and former director of training for the United States Information Agency, trained thousands of Peace Corps volunteers and US Embassy personnel. He discusses in his book the stages of adjustment for those going overseas. He lists these stages as (1) initial euphoria, (2) irritability and hostility, (3) gradual adjustment, and (4) adaptation or biculturalism. These stages parallel Oberg’s stages. He notes that in the second stage, “Gradually, your focus turns from the similarities to the differences. And those differences, which suddenly seem to be everywhere are troubling.” This is “culture shock” (pp. 67–68). Educators Gullahorn and Gullahorn (1963) characterize these experiences as a W curve and base their curve upon surveys of 400 American

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students in France and 5300 American Fulbright and Smith-Mundt scholars abroad. They raise the question of what happens to the returnees and their fellows at home and the subsequent interactions between them? This is articulated by the Gullahorns as the fifth stage or re-entry stage. Lewis and Jungman (1986) take a slightly different approach, adding a new first stage which they call the Preliminary Phase where the sojourner decides to leave home, prepares for life overseas, and forms stereotypes about what it will be like in the host culture (p. 3). Their second stage, the Spectator Phase, parallels Oberg’s Honeymoon Stage. Lewis and Jungman observe that the newcomer caught up in the new sights and experiences “is not likely to consider how he appears to others during this period, primarily because he is so deeply involved as a spectator of all that is going on around him that he has difficulty imagining that he himself is the spectacle” (p. 41). Generally, the sojourner has a buffer from the difficulties of everyday life. A member of the host country or a colleague, who has been in the country for a while, will take the “Visitor” to see interesting landmarks, recommend restaurants, and share cultural events. Their third stage Increasing Participation parallels Oberg’s Adjustment Stage. Over time, the sojourner realizes that difficulties are not deliberate attacks by the hosts and begins to experience a perceptual shift from “culture shock” to “culture aware” (Pitts, 2010, n.p.). If this stage is not successfully navigated, then the individual falls into “Culture Shock” or a fourth stage, the Shock Phase, where the person feels depressed, begins to isolate himself/herself from others, and experiences “somatic disorders that are difficult to locate and identify precisely, irritability, uncharacteristically eccentric and compulsive behavior, and unpredictable outbursts of aggression” (Lewis & Jungman, 1986, p.  137). Individuals ghettoize themselves with others from their home country and apply negative stereotypes to the host country. Stage 5 is the Adaptation Phase or Oberg’s fourth Adjustment Stage. Individuals begin to feel more at “home” or can experience what Edward Hall calls “congruence” with the host culture. Now they feel more confident, have learned effective and appropriate communication skills, and are able to build social relationships. Occasional frustrations occur, but they are not debilitating. The final stage or Phase 6 is the Re-entry Phase. Oberg recognizes this as a potential problem, but he does not label it as a stage. After a period of time sojourners return to their home base country. This return may not be satisfactory, because people often are not interested in hearing details

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about the sojourner’s new insights and experiences. “For people in the home culture, those experiences are remote in both space and time and are of little relevance to life here and now” (Lewis & Jungman, 1986, p. 271). The travelers again feel like fish out of water and may feel an intense longing to return where they feel better accepted. Neither character in the two films analyzed here can return home and experience the Re-entry Phase. Vladimir defects and would likely be imprisoned if he returned to Moscow. Ibrahim no longer has family in Lebanon and has spent much of his adult life in Kuwait where he would never be able to gain the protections of citizenship. The stages of being foreign are not well understood by the traveler. Rarely can one step back with objectivity and say, “I am a spectator, or my anxiety is a symptom of culture shock.” Belonging or fitting into a new culture by the newcomer is a complex process and requires careful intercultural negotiations by both parties. Edward Said (2000) reflects upon his immigration experiences and writes, “Exiles look at non-exiles with resentment. They belong in their surroundings, you feel, whereas an exile is always out of place. What is it like to be born in a place, to live and stay there, to know that you are of it, more or less forever?” (pp. 180–181). Questions of assimilation are raised by the host country’s citizens, who wonder about immigrant loyalties and whether these individuals threaten their jobs. One immigrant family is a novelty, but dozens of them are perceived as a threat. Natives often assume that the immigrant can change identities and cultural practices as easily as acquiring a new wardrobe. Granted it might take a bit longer to become fluent in the language. Setting aside preconceptions and prejudices and walking a mile in another’s shoes is not an easy task for either party. Eva Hoffman (1999), forced to leave Poland after the Holocaust, writes about the need to bring “our first legacy … into dialogue with our later experiences, in which we can build new experiences, in which we can build new meanings as valid as the first ones.” She recommends “a shared world, a world in which we exist by virtue of shared interests rather than mutual alienation” (p. 62). Unfortunately, it requires less effort to take the path of labeling both the newcomer and the settled citizen as “Other.” At best there may be a mutual tolerance but that differs from acceptance of the “Other.”

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Context for Moscow on the Hudson and The Citizen Inspired by his Ukrainian grandfather who escaped from service in the Russian Army in 1905 and took a boat to America, Paul Mazursky and co-author Leon Capetanos collaborated as writers for the 1984 film Moscow on the Hudson. Leon Capetanos, whose father immigrated from Greece, in a  2018  interview with Nina Metz for the Chicago Tribune reveals: It is not easy to be all of a sudden in a foreign land, even though it looks like the gleaming palace on the hill. … You think, if I can just get to America things will be fine—I’m a good worker, I can make a living, my children can get an education—all these things are in your head that propel you here. But the reality is always more complicated, and you have to be a pretty strong person to figure it all out and make it work. (Metz, 2018, n.p.)

After interviewing Russian immigrants and visiting Russia, the two writers decided to make a comedy that focused on a Russian’s immigrant’s experience in America (Wayback Machine, 2012). Director Sam Kadi is a Syrian-born American citizen, and The Citizen (2013) was his first feature length film. Kadi studied engineering at the University of Aleppo in Syria and came to the United States in 2000. He reports that much of the film is based upon true events and people he has known. Kadi sees his films as a “political” forum and has emerged as a critic of the civil war in Syria. His second film, a documentary, Little Gandhi (2016) was Syria’s first official entry for Best Foreign Language Film for the 90th Academy Awards (Film Threat). Neither director consciously used The Stages of Being Foreign as an organizing thread for their stories, but their characters’ actions follow the observations made by Oberg. The historical context for Moscow on the Hudson is the cold war period where relations between the United States and Russia were characterized by mutual paranoia and hostility. Williams (1989) writes that policy makers in Russia and the United States tended to see the relations between the two superpowers as a “Manichean struggle between the powers of light and the powers of darkness.” Williams characterized this struggle as “that of two states blundering about in the dark with little knowledge or understanding of each other’s perspectives, sensitivities and problems” (p. 275). Mazursky’s film focuses upon Vladimir, a saxophonist with the Moscow

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Circus, who defects during a cultural exchange between Moscow and New York City and offers the same light and dark metaphor, a metaphor of scarcity and surplus. We see Vladimir in Moscow waiting in a lengthy line for toilet paper and pickled mushrooms. After Vladimir defects during the troupe’s shopping trip to Bloomingdale’s and is taken in by a multigenerational family, much like the one he left behind, he takes on the task of shopping for coffee in an American supermarket. He asks where the coffee line is and is directed to the coffee aisle. He faints in amazement when he encounters all the choices of coffee. In the opening scenes of the film, we see dreary weather and the citizens are bundled up to protect themselves from the cold snow-filled wind. After a briefing about avoiding the decadence of places like Times Square and Rockefeller Center in New York City, we see the performers riding a bus and getting a tour of a city, which is all sunshine and sweater weather. Moscow is the dark dreary metaphor and New York City is bright light of hopes and dreams. Ironically, the bus company that exists in real life and transports them on their tour of the city is named Liberty Lines. The Citizen (2013) is set in the context of the events of 9/11  in New York City. The main character Ibrahim Jarrah arrives in New York City on the day before that fateful day. He becomes caught up in a series of assumptions about his immigrant origins and has a similar last name as one of the hijackers. We witness clips in the film from that event and President Bush’s televised speech where he states that Americans are asking “Why do they hate us?” His answer is “They hate our freedoms: our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other…. These terrorists kill not merely to end lives, but to disrupt and end a way of life.” In the aftermath of these events, the United States launched the War on Terror and invaded Afghanistan to destroy Osama bin Laden, the key planner behind these events. The Homeland Security Act in 2002 created the Department of Homeland Security and gave it powers to conduct warrantless surveillance of telecommunications in hopes of foiling future plots against the United States (Bush, 2001).

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Stage 1: Preliminary Stage At this stage preparations are made for leaving and goodbyes are being said. Individuals experience feelings of anticipation and regret with the accompanying anticipation of the new and good and fears about what those encounters will bring. In The Citizen the main character Ibrahim arrives at Passport Control in the JFK airport in New York City. It is here that we learn that he is from Lebanon and most recently from Kuwait and has secured a Green Card through the lottery system; thus, entitling him to unlimited residence and work in the United States. We do not see in the film anything about his preparations and leaving Kuwait. It is not until later in the film that we learn that his parents were killed when Ibrahim was 12 years old during the Civil War (1975–1990) in Lebanon. Economic drivers, the major reason immigrants come to the United States, are motivating Ibrahim. Coming from two countries, Lebanon that experienced years of civil war and Kuwait which was invaded by the forces of Saddam Hussein in 1990, Ibrahim, like many immigrants before him, hopes to start a new life by establishing his own business a necessary precursor to marriage and starting a family. Vladimir, while being aware of the dangers of dissent and visits to “mental hospitals” as experienced by his activist neighbor and peer Leonoid, is more inclined to keep his head down and try to curry favor with those who watch his actions. Vladimir has a stable position performing as a saxophonist with the Moscow circus and is permitted to travel abroad in their cultural exchanges. He promises his girlfriend that he will return and bring her a coveted pair of designer blue jeans. He appears to have no desire to leave this life behind for artistic freedom or the chance to travel without government strictures that his clown friend, Anatoly, desires. When Anatoly confides in him of his desire to defect while they are in New York, he actively discourages him and warns, “They grab you and throw you right to the bear.” It is an unexpected turn of events when Vladimir clutching the jeans meant for his girlfriend decides to defect during the circus shopping trip to Bloomingdale’s. Anatoly exclaims that “I am a bird without wings” and gets back on the bus taking the troupe to the airport. Upon his defection Vladimir finds himself protected by the New York Police Department and the FBI from his minders who fear their futures if they return without one of their circus performers. He has made no

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advance preparations and left his family and girlfriend with the expectation of his return. Vladimir has only the clothes upon his back and a small amount of American dollars for shopping at Bloomingdale’s. Unlike Ibrahim, who has made careful plans and submitted considerable paperwork, Vladimir makes an impulsive decision and bypasses that Preliminary Stage.

Stage 2: Spectator Stage In the spectator stage, the individual is busy experiencing new sights and sounds and getting settled into the new job. Initially people are eager to help you, and you feel like a guest. Shortly after Ibrahim checks into an elderly Brooklyn hotel, he allows a young woman, Diane, to escape from her abusive boyfriend and hide in his hotel room. When she learns that he has just arrived in the United States, she offers to show him around the city. He grabs his camera and they see the usual tourist sites, such as Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, and the United Nations with all the members’ flags flying outside. He purchases the obligatory t-shirt with the American flag on it. Unfortunately, his spectator period is cut short, because he has arrived the day before 9/11 and the tragic loss of 2657 lives when the hijacked planes flew into the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Agents from US Customs and Border Protection break into his hotel room while he is performing his morning prayers and Ibrahim is detained for six months. When Ibrahim asks for an attorney, the examining officer tells him, “Terrorists don’t get lawyers.” As a detainee by Border Protection, Ibrahim cannot easily get a public defender. His crime is guilt by association. The director lets the viewer see that Ibrahim is considered guilty by virtue of being an Arab. In his advance preparation and securing the visa and airline tickets, Ibrahim did not study the US legal system or establish contacts with agencies that might help him with securing his freedom prior to a formal hearing. Vladimir is immediately granted temporary political asylum and acquires a Cuban-born immigration attorney, who seems to be motivated economically as an ambulance chaser, but also has the desire to genuinely help fellow immigrants. Black security guard Lionel Witherspoon offers Vladimir a place to stay, which Vladimir characterizes as “my new American family.” Not understanding the economics and segregation for African Americans, he is awed by the street musicians and dancers, the street

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vendors, and hustle of Harlem. Witherspoon corrects this illusion by stating that he lives in a ghetto “with a capital ‘G’.”

Stage 3: Increasing Participation In the increasing participation stage, individuals experience good and bad days. They begin to have problems with money and experience concerns about health and sanitation. Culture clashes continue and the individual either copes and forges on or falls into culture shock. After Ibrahim is released from prison, he begins the job search and eventually lands a minimum wage job working in a gas station minimart owned by a fellow immigrant. Diane, who works as a bartender, allows him to stay temporarily at her apartment, and he begins taking English classes. One of Ibrahim’s plans is to marry and start a family. In his English class, he meets a woman from Lebanon and proposes to her. She does not share his enthusiasm about the United States and tells him that she does not see the United States as “home.” After a robbery, his boss decides to sell the gas station and Ibrahim begins another job search. Things start spiraling downward for our immigrant, but he continues to be optimistic. At a small Christmas street fair, Ibrahim encounters a young Jewish man who is called “Kike” and attacked by a gang of toughs. Ibrahim having a keen sense of justice helps fend off the attackers, who look like stereotypical “skinheads.” Both men escape with their lives but end up in the hospital. He is featured as a hero on the cover of the New York Post. His new friend helps him get a job in sales at a car dealership and things start to look up economically for Ibrahim. He decorates his own apartment and wears suits picked out by Diane. Kadi notes that Ibrahim develops “a strong character” and despite his bad experiences continues to fight for his dream. He explains that these immigrants “are really determined  – and they work really hard and never give up” (Film Threat, 2013). Vladimir also gains a girlfriend Lucia, an Italian immigrant, who was motivated by the opportunities for women in the United States. She has been in the United States the required five years and studies to pass the citizenship test. They meet when he hides behind her while she stands at her perfume counter in Bloomingdale’s. She helps Vladimir acclimate and cues him in on American language such as when it is and is not appropriate to call an African American “a boy.” Vladimir who hopes for work playing his saxophone finds only menial jobs. Undaunted, when he is offered a job as a bus boy, he says, “I will take

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it.” He has a series of low-paying jobs working for McDonald’s, a street vendor, and as a limousine driver. He also starts taking English classes and rents an elderly apartment. We see from the elaborate set of locks on the door that it is not in a very safe neighborhood. Vladimir remains optimistic and enjoys the support of his friends and an occasional visit to the Russian community enclave in Brooklyn.

Stage 4: Culture Shock The shock stage usually occurs after a series of setbacks accompanied by feelings of anger, loneliness, and hopelessness. Plans seem to have gone awry. A fervent desire emerges to return to an earlier place and time. A letter arrives from the Department of Homeland Security established in 2002 by President Bush, and it informs Ibrahim that he will be deported. This sends Ibrahim into culture shock. In moments of disappointment and disillusion, our immigrant burns the letter that informed him of his award of the desirable green card. His future looks bleak. Networking pays off. Diane and his boss help him find an immigration attorney and successfully fight to remain in the United States. Vladimir also receives a sad letter informing him of his beloved grandfather’s death. After visiting a Russian club to assuage his grief, he returns to his walk-up apartment. Two teenaged boys waiting in the hallway beat him up and take his wallet. His relationships are crumbling. Lucia rebuffs his offer to live together and Lionel returns to Alabama to reunite with his five-year-old son. He calls his attorney Ramirez and tells him that the United States is an “insane country.” As is often typical in the shock stage, he romanticizes Russia and wishes to return to his old life. He exclaims that the United States offers a “false liberty” and “no freedom.” Suffering from bruises and a blackened eye, he categorizes New York as “brutal, crazy.”

Stage 5: Adaptation Stage With the passage of time, summoning one’s inner strengths and seeking support from old and new friends, most newcomers begin to adjust to their situation. They begin to develop greater facility with the language and develop a better understanding and acceptance of the host culture. In the workplace they become more task oriented and energetic. After winning his immigration case, we see Ibrahim being sworn in as a new US citizen. The closing shots of the film show Ibrahim after the close

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of the working day driving an expensive car and greeted at the door of his suburban home by Diane and their young son. He has achieved his American dream of a decent job and family. During the early morning coffee shop meeting with Ramirez, Vladimir rants against the United States and exclaims that things were better in Russia, because there you knew who the enemy was. In the heat of culture shock, he decries the lack of law and order and complains that the muggers will never be prosecuted. Overheard by a fellow Russian immigrant from Leningrad, who is sitting at the counter, he is reminded that he could go back to Russia to law and order and stand in line for “stale bread.” In a dissolve of an Asian man carrying a sparkler, Vladimir is reminded that it is the celebration of Independence Day. Chastened, he returns to his apartment to find Lucia waiting for him. She tells him that she is not ready for marriage but “would love to live with an immigrant.” Vladimir moves into the adaptation stage. He gets a job playing a saxophone in a club, rather than bussing its tables. Lionel returns and takes Vladimir’s old job driving a limousine. Vladimir affirms that in America “anything is possible.”

Concluding Thoughts Both films offer insight into the stages of adaptation some immigrants experience. By examining the films through Stages of Being Foreign, viewers can come to understand and perhaps develop empathy for the immigrant experience. An understanding of the stages can help viewers who might find themselves in an unfamiliar culture. I recall being particularly irritated by the Cairene sense of time and my need to know specific times for events. The explanation of Inshallah or “God wills” meaning that the divine controls events was not satisfying to a Western mind that believes that humans control events and being on time is a virtue. Initially, I was irritated. This was a mild version of culture shock and I was able to step back and identify it as such and modify my expectations. Moscow on the Hudson and The Citizen came to theaters during challenging times. During the 1980s, Americans feared the Russian Communist Government and supported President Reagan’s arms build-up against the power of that “evil empire.” Most Germans in Nazi Germany embraced stereotypes of Jews without actually knowing any. Americans did not know much about individual Russians. Upon meeting Vladimir, Lionel’s grandfather exclaims, “I never met a Russian.” He asks, “Are they all white?”

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The bombing of the World Trade Center in New York by Arabs in 2001 confirmed Americans’ fears about the blood thirsty citizens of the Middle East. In an interview, Director Sam Kadi indicates that much of Ibrahim’s story is true and came from people he knew or knew about. Ibrahim’s love interest and marriage were director’s prerogative, but Kadi felt it necessary to tell the story of “the immigrants who work day and night, fighting to make it. But you never hear about people like them” (Film Threat, 2012). Marciniak and Bennett (2018) write, “The current frightening rise of xenophobic and nationalistic movements in various parts of the world certainly compels a reflection on foreignness as a perceived contentious and challenging idea” (pp. 2, 3). While these two English professors are not familiar with the Oberg’s Stages of Being Foreign, they look to film to “let us imagine ‘foreign’ difference outside the paradigms of subjugation, victimhood, or exoticization” (p. 3). Both main characters in The Citizen and Moscow on the Hudson navigate the Stages of Being Foreign. The writers drew upon their own immigrant stories and as such validate Oberg’s model. His model can help viewers recognize and categorize the experiences and emotional reactions of Ibrahim Jarrah and Vladimir Ivanov. With this information, viewers may fulfill Kadi’s wish that viewers empathize with the life experiences of ordinary immigrants.

References Bauman, Z. (2004). Identity: Conversations with Benedetto Vecchi/Zygmunt Bauman. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press. Bush, G. W. (2001, September 20). Address to a joint session of Congress and the nation. https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-­srv/nation/specials/ attacked/transcripts/bushaddress_092001.html Cupsa, I. (2018). Culture shock and identity. Transactional Analysis Journal, 48(2), 181–191. Film Threat. (2012). https://filmthreat.com/uncategorized/the-citizen-aninterview-with-director-sam-kadi/ Film Threat. (2013, October 7). “The Citizen”. An Interview with Director Sam Kadi. https://filmthreat.com/uncategorized/the-citzen-an-interview-withdirector-sam-kadi/ Gullahorn, J. T., & Gullahorn, J. E. (1963). An extension of the U-Curve hypothesis. Journal of Social Issues, 19(3), 33–47. Hoffman, E. (1999). The new nomads. In A.  Aciman (Ed.), Letters of transit: Reflections on exile, identity, language and loss (pp.  35–63). New  York: The New Press. Kadi, S. (2013). The Citizen [Film]. Why Me Films.

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Kohls, R.  L. (1984). Survival kit for overseas living: For Americans planning to work and live abroad. Yarmouth, ME: Intercultural Press. Lewis, T. J., & Jungman, R. E. (1986). On being foreign: Culture shock in short fiction. Yarmouth, ME: Intercultural Press. Marciniak, K., & Bennett, B. (2018). Aporias of foreignness: Transnational encounters in cinema. Transnational Cinemas, 9(1), 1–12. Mazursky, P. (1984). Moscow on the Hudson [Film]. Columbia Pictures. Metz, N. (2018, July 18). Revisiting a portrait of immigrant life in the Robin Williams film ‘Moscow on the Hudson’. Chicago Tribune. https://www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/movies/ct-­e nt-­r evisiting-­moscow-­on-­the-­ hudson-­0720-­story.html Mukherjee, B. (1999). Imagining homelands. In A. Aciman (Ed.), Letters of transit: Reflections on exile, identity, language and loss (pp. 35–63). New York: The New Press. Oberg, K. (1954, August 3). Speech presented to the Women’s Club of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The Bobbs-Merrill reprint series in the social sciences. Oberg, K. (1960). Culture shock and the problem of adjustments in new cultural environments. Practical Anthropology, 7, 177–182. Pitts, M.  J. (2010). Culture shock. In R.  L. Jackson II & M.  A. Hogg (Eds.), Encyclopedia of identity. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. https://doi. org/10.4135/9781412979306.n61. Said, E. W. (2000). Reflections on exile and other essays. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Slonim-Nevo, V., & Regev, S. (2016). Risk factors associated with culture shock among asylum seekers from Darfur. Journal of Refugee Studies, 29(1), 117–138. UNHCR- Figures at a Glance. https://www.unhcr.org/figures-­at-­a-­glance.html Wayback Machine. (2012, September 1). Production notes for Moscow on the Hudson. https://web.archive.org/web/20120901140122/http://www.sonymoviechannel.com/movies/moscow-­on-­hudson/details Weaver, G. W. (2000). Understanding and coping with cross-cultural adjustment stress. In G. W. Weaver (Ed.), Culture, communication and conflict: Readings in intercultural relations (2nd ed., pp.  177–194). Boston, MA: Pearson Publishing. Williams, P. (1989). US-Soviet relations: Beyond the Cold War? International Affairs, 65(2), 273–288.

CHAPTER 3

First-Generation Korean American Women’s Mobility: Intersections of Ethnicity/Race, Class, and Gender Heui-Yung Park

In Reading Asian American Literature: From Necessity to Extravagance, Sau-ling Cynthia Wong (1993) asserts that “America is founded on the myths of mobility” (p. 118) and describes how the idea of mobility has been deeply embedded in American literature—including Asian American literature—since the arrivals of the Puritans. However, Wong (1993) contends that the mainstream narratives of movements in the United States are often associated with positive ideas of mobility—“independence, freedom, an opportunity for individual actualization and/or societal renewal” (p. 121)—whereas those of Asian American foreground negative associations—“subjugation, coercion, [and/or the] impossibility of fulfillment for self or community.” For Wong (1993), the difference between such associations with the mainstream American and Asian American mobility stems from the disparity between the economic, political, social

H.-Y. Park (*) Kyungil University, Gyeongbuk Pohang, South Korea © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_3

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opportunities and limitations that white Americans and Asian Americans have experienced in America. And yet, by taking an only ethnic-group-­ focused approach when discussing geographical or upward movements represented in Asian American writings, Wong does not emphasize sufficiently how class and gender are significantly implicated in Asian American mobility as well. Several works of Asian American writers, however, continue to preserve the mainstream idea of upward movement on American soil in one way or another. For example, Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club (2006), which centers on the mother-daughter relationship through the first- and second-­ generation Chinese American women, shows how they succeed to enhance their life by overcoming difficulties they each deal with. Kevin Kwan’s Crazy Rich Asians (2014) assumes the socio-economic mobility of Asians by setting up the main character Rachel Chu as offspring of a middle-class immigrant family from China and a professor at New  York University. Similarly, American-born Korean American writer Ronyoung Kim’s Clay Walls (1996) depicts the success story of two generations of Korean American subjects through immigrant mother Hyesu and her daughter Faye who enter the middle class through hard work. These narratives thus convey and sustain the illusions of race and socio-economic mobility myth in America. Life-writing texts produced by first-generation Korean women who came to the United States in the first half of the twentieth century—Mary Paik Lee’s Quiet Odyssey: A Pioneer Korean Woman in America (1990) and Lanhei Kim Park’s Facing Four Ways: The Autobiography of Lanhei Kim Park (Mrs. No-Yong Park) (1984)—certainly contain the mobility theme often found in American literature. Lee’s and Park’s life narratives describe multiple movements across national borders in Asia and around America during their lifetimes. On the one hand, they do display to an extent the shared characteristics of Asian American mobility that Wong identifies—in their case, those of Korean Americans. But on the other, these narratives do not wholly conform to a binary viewpoint of progressive and unprogressive notions of mobility, dependent on one’s ethnicity or race. For instance, while Lee’s moving is tightly linked to her family’s failures in fulfilling their wishes to make a livelihood, Park’s is coupled with her own development and achievements. I argue that the distinctive nature of Lee’s and Park’s movements cannot be fully explained by their Korean ethnicity alone. Their economic backgrounds must be taken into

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account, and especially because they contribute to their failures or successes in realizing their dreams. In Asian American Studies, class is often linked to ethnicity or race. As a result, first-generation Asian immigrants arriving before and around the very early 1900s and their descendants are generally assumed to be part of the working class—partly because most of these immigrants came to the United States as railroad workers, plantation laborers, or seekers of other working-class jobs.1 But until the mid-1950s, in addition to dealing with pervasive racial prejudice against Asian nationals in American society, these immigrants also faced targeted, comprehensive restrictions prohibiting them from becoming American citizens or owning land or other categories of property. They therefore had few opportunities to become middle class, stranding them in the working class. But Elda María Román (2017) challenges the general tendency to conflate ethnicity/race and class in American literary studies by pointing to differences represented in Mexican American and African American texts that reveal the often internally heterogeneous nature of various ethnic or racial groups in America. According to Román (2017), while merging ethnicity/race and class has contributed to generating “a sense of group identities affirming racial and ethnic difference” (p. 15), it has also under-­ emphasized the significance of class differences by assuming that people of the same ethnic group belong to the same class. Korean Americans are another example of this, for as the cases of Lee, Park, and other Korean American writers, such as Il-Han New2 and Younghill Kang, demonstrate,3 Asian immigrants of the early 1900s with identical ethnic or racial backgrounds did not always come from similar economic circumstances. David Palumbo-Liu (1999) has noted that attention to class does not assume that issues of ethnicity or race are less important in Asian American Studies—“Race does not ‘disappear’ as much as it is muted” (p. 5)—and 1  Later generations of Asian immigrants, and particularly since the mid-1960s, have differed from their predecessors, since a significant number of them were professionals or highly skilled workers in their fields (Takaki, 1998, p. 420). 2  Il-Han New, a successful businessman and author of When I was a Boy in Korea (1928), came from an affluent family in Pyongyang whose business was very profitable. He arrived in America in the 1900s when he was nine years old, having received a formal education. 3  Younghill Kang belonged to the aristocratic class in Korean society and arrived in New York in the 1920s. Receiving a master’s degree from Harvard, Kang published a few works, including Grass Roof (1931) and East Goes West: The Making of an Oriental Yankee (1937).

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I would argue that taking class into account is essential when considering Korean American and Asian American immigrant mobility as represented in their writings. Although less frequently discussed when assessing Asian American ethnicity/race and mobility, gender is also a significant influence on Lee’s and Park’s experience. In her study of representations of ethnicity in autobiography, Betty Ann Bergland (1994) identifies a predisposition to disregard the significance of gender. The Asian American subject is generally assumed to be male, and “issues of gender in ethnic representations tend to be muted or ignored” (p. 71). This is especially so for first-generation Asian American women subjects, because they produced relatively few autobiographies when compared to those of the men or the following generations. And Lee’s Quiet Odyssey (1990) and Park’s Facing Four Ways (1984) are among the very few that represent first-generation Korean American women’s lives. Examining these two works offers insights into how their mobility was affected by their gender roles after marriage, which display a striking degree of conformity to gender ideologies defined by patriarchal culture. Though Lee and Park are both first-generation Korean Americans, they have very different backgrounds in terms of their age when immigrating, the amount of education they received in Korea or the United States, and most importantly, the class to which they belonged. Born in Korea in 1900, Lee arrived in Hawai‘i when she was five, and then relocated with her family to California in 1906, when her father’s contract with a sugarcane plantation ended. To make a living, the family moved from one place to another around California for many years. Lee helped her mother around the house and took care of her younger sisters and brothers. Because of their difficult financial situation, she moved to Hollister during her teenage years, to work and pay for her education. But due to her poor health, she returned soon, and barely graduated from high school in 1916. Following her marriage to another Korean immigrant, Hung Man Lee, in 1919, she worked in the fields or sold produce, moving to different places with her two children to search for work. As a result, Quiet Odyssey (1990), edited from her original manuscript, “One Korean Family in America” and published by historiographer Sucheng Chan (p. 164), records Lee’s movements to Riverside, Colusa, Hollister, and Willows, as she and her family struggled to survive. While Lee left Korea as a child and belonged to the working class, Park was born into a wealthy family in Korea in 1902. She spent her youth in

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China, Japan, and Korea, where she received a formal education. Though her family moved to Manchuria in the early 1910s because of Japanese colonization, after attending local Chinese schools, Park returned to Korea to study at Ewha High School and Ewha Women’s College. She went to Kobe College in Japan as an exchange student, and after graduating from Ewha Women’s College, she came to America in the late 1920s to further her education in the West. During her studies at University of California at Los Angeles, she met No-Yong Park—a Korean intellectual with a doctoral degree from Harvard and a relatively well-known lecturer and writer4—whom she married in 1935. Before settling down permanently in San Diego in the 1940s, the couple and their children spent several years living in the Midwest, including in Chicago, Illinois, and Kirksville, Missouri. Park’s Facing Four Ways (1984) traces her formative years in Asia and her subsequent life in America. By looking at Lee’s and Park’s very different life narratives, this chapter evaluates how their Korean ethnicity/race, class, and gender together influence their movements across national borders and within the continental United States. Divided into three sections, the chapter first shows how Lee and Park depart from their homeland for America and how racial discrimination against Asians limits their places of residence, foregrounding the impact of ethnicity/race in their movements. This chapter then studies the divergent patterns of their mobility to suggest how class affects Lee’s and Park’s American experience and accomplishments. Finally, the chapter explores how these first-generation Korean women’s lives and life stories are shaped by gender, pointing to the internalization of gender ideologies stipulated by their native, male-centered culture.

Departures from Homeland: Japanese Colonization and Racial Discrimination Though a handful of Koreans moved between Korea and the United States during the nineteenth century for commercial, educational, or other reasons, the official Korean immigration history began on January 13, 1903, when about 100 Koreans arrived in Hawai‘i, leaving their native country mainly in hopes of a better economic, religious, and political 4  No-Yong Park published several works during his lifetime, including Making a New China (1929), An Oriental View of American Civilization (1934), and Chinaman’s Chance: An Autobiography (1940).

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future (Takaki, 1998, pp.  53–57). The initial movements of Lee’s and Park’s families away from Korea are largely the result of its colonial history, becoming almost forcibly relocated to Hawai‘i and Manchuria due to the Japanese invasion of Korea. Lee’s family had to leave their house in Pyongyang—the current capital of North Korea—when Japanese officers forced them to evacuate it so they could use it for themselves. Lee’s family moved to other cities, looking for a place to live, but ultimately decided to go to Hawai‘i because they would have had difficulties making ends meet had they stayed. Having lost its diplomatic sovereignty through the 1905 Eulsa Treaty, an unequal agreement between the two countries, Korea had become Japan’s protectorate. The officers’ demand for their house was therefore an example of how Japan as a colonial power was subordinating the colonized Koreans or driving them out of their native country. The departure of Park’s family for Manchuria in the early 1910s was also due to Japanese colonization. Five years after the Eulsa Treaty, Korea is fully occupied by Japan. Because of Park’s father’s involvement in Korea’s underground independence movements, he is pursued by Japanese police, and goes into exile in Manchuria. Establishing permanent residence there because his “patriotic spirit revolted at the thought of becoming a colonial subject of the Japanese” (p. 14), he became a naturalized Chinese citizen, and in time, the rest of the family members, with the exception of his wife, move there. For Park, then, the removal of her family from their Korean home, their eventual settlement in a foreign land, and the separation of her parents are all the outcomes of the foreign colonial invasion. Park’s subsequent travels to and from Korea and Manchuria testify to the dire circumstances of many colonized Koreans. After joining her father in Manchuria in 1914, Park spent several years of her adolescence going to school there. She traveled back to Korea in 1918 to attend Ewha High School, but soon had to return to Manchuria, because the 1919 Independence Movements—nonviolent national protests against Japanese colonial rule—led the Japanese government to force all schools in Korea to close indefinitely. On her way back to Manchuria, Park disguised herself so as not to get caught by Japanese police, who were searching for Korean “suspects,” mostly intellectuals and students who had likely participated in the Independence Movements. When returning to Korea for a visit some time later, Park did get arrested by Japanese police, put in prison, and tortured:

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The Japanese police chief forcibly undressed me and made me kneel on the dirt floor. He put me in a small cell … and mercilessly beat me all over my body … until my body turned purple … My limbs were so sore and shaky that I was not able to move for some time. (p. 76)

Because no evidence was found linking her to the Movements, she is eventually released, but Park’s torment and victimization at that time show the perilous situations of colonized Koreans, whose sovereignty and homes were lost within their own country. The continuation of Japanese rule over Korea until the mid-1940s prevented Lee’s and Park’s return, with America providing both a political refuge and safe haven. Soon after the 1919 Independence Movements, Lee’s family hears tragic news about their relatives in Korea: “[M]y grandparents, uncle, and relatives were all dragged off to camps where they were beaten and tortured … My grandmother was blinded … [M]y relatives were no longer able to stand up” (p. 61). After their departure, colonized Korea had turned into an even more dangerous place for its native people. Park is afraid to visit Korea because “[i]f we went there, we wouldn’t be able to get out alive” (p. 209). As long as their home country is subjugated by Japan, it is unthinkable for either Lee and Park to return, whether temporarily or permanently, thereby making their lives in America permanent. The departures of Lee and Park from their native country do not however end the impact of colonial history on their lives. America is definitely more secure than Korea at this time and offers more hope for the future. But because they are coming from Korea, their following relocations to the continental United States are restricted, due to racial discrimination against Asian nationals. When Lee’s family moved to Riverside, California, in 1906, they and the other Korean workers had to live in a segregated area previously occupied by Chinese immigrants in the 1880s, because “[o]rientals and others were not allowed to live in town with the white people” (p. 14). In Willows, they must stay outside the town limits. They, as well as other ethnic Americans, are “forced to live there because damned hypocrites… think we are not fit to live in town” (p.  56). Even in the 1950s, when Lee and her husband plan to move to Whittier after quitting farming in South Whittier, “When I knocked on doors [to rent a room or house], every person took one look at me and shut the door without a word; so we were forced to move to Los Angeles” (p. 100). Their eventual relocation to Los Angeles was therefore compulsory, due to white

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homeowners prejudiced against Asians, displaying the actual, if not explicitly legal, limitations upon choosing their place of their residence, and in some cases actually determining where they would have to move. Although Park’s narrative suggests that she and her family experience far less discrimination than Lee does, they were not free from it. When they try to buy a house in Oceanside, San Diego, the homeowner is reluctant to sell it to them because “[r]acism against orientals [sic] raged all over California in those days” (p. 234). The homeowner’s sister opposed selling the house to an Asian family, and one of the neighbors objected to the Park family as well: “‘I would rather like to have a Caucasian family move into that house than have you orientals [sic] in our neighborhood’” (p. 233). Thanks to Park’s renowned husband, the family eventually wins the white neighbors’ approval to move into their neighborhood, but this episode reveals that being an Asian national, even a highly educated and distinguished one, in southern California or some other places dominated by white Americans in those days still could mean some degree of restrictions as to where they lived.

Implications of Moving: Divided by Class While the similar causes and results of Lee’s and Park’s movements shed light on the significance of one’s ethnicity/race in shaping Asian American mobility, their Korean ethnicity does not entirely account for their experience. Subsuming class under the umbrella of ethnicity foregrounds the legal and social inequality that all non-white ethnic Americans went through in the early 1900s, and more specifically, the collective, discriminatory, and often legally sanctioned treatment of all Asian immigrants and their descendants that both Lee and Park experience. But while Lee’s Quiet Odyssey (1990) demonstrates through the family’s movements the unfeasible, even impossible conditions for realizing dreams in America, Park’s Facing Four Ways (1984) is marked by her undeniable achievements as she moved about—obtaining a Western education, settling down in American communities, and becoming a citizen. These successes, however, were only possible because of the economic and social privileges Park has that working-class Koreans such as Lee did not. For many immigrants to America and their offspring, whites and non-­ whites alike, the mobility myth is famously linked to the American Dream, which supposedly promises equal opportunities for upward mobility for all believers with a strong work ethic, regardless of their ethnicity, class, or

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gender. But the numerous relocations of Lee’s family, caused by their need to earn a living simply to survive, do not coincide with improvement. In fact, their hard labor produces the opposite, for their poor circumstances and harsh working conditions leave them at a standstill, or worse. On the other hand, Park’s progress in a very different educational environment of privilege eventually leads, though not without difficulty, to the accomplishment of her dreams. The difference between the two women’s successes or failures can therefore be attributed almost totally to their respective statuses as working and professional class. For Lee’s family, moving always signifies the failure to earn a livelihood. After one year in Hawai‘i, where Lee’s father worked on plantations, the family moves to the continental United States, looking for more and better opportunities to find work and to improve their living conditions. In fact, their situation gets worse. In Hawai‘i, Lee’s mother did not have to work; the family could scrape by without her outside employment. But in Riverside, while her husband harvests crops, she prepares and serves meals to about 30 Koreans working on the same farm because as Lee writes, it was “the only way we could make a living for ourselves” (p.  14). Lee’s mother’s health deteriorates from several years of arduous labor, and the family moves to such places as Claremont and Colusa, where because wages are too low or there is no work available at all, they end up with “just one biscuit with a cup of water three times a day” (p.  26). Lee’s father then attempts to grow and market potatoes in the Sacramento area, but this fails because prices drop severely due to the ongoing depression sweeping across the country. Shortly afterward, the father becomes very ill from toxic fumes while working in a quicksilver mine in San Benito County. “Time and circumstances beyond our control were always against us poor people” (p.  43), Lee later observes. Their continued moving around California does not better their lives, as the American Dream suggested it would for working-class Korean immigrants. The family’s mobility is horizontal or even downward—the result of a series of recurring failures to make a living for themselves, which forces them to keep moving, searching for work. The later lives of Lee’s parents map out their total failure to realize their dreams of a better life for themselves and their family that had led to their moves to Hawaiʻi and then continental America. In the early 1920s they moved once more, this time to Tremonton, Utah, to farm sugar beets. But their circumstances hardly improved: “The family lived in a typical old broken-down farmhouse … The sugar beet market price was so low, they

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were just barely making a living. It was a pitiful situation” (p. 80). When Lee’s parents could no longer survive in Utah in the mid-1930s, they and their children relocated back to California. Lee recalls that exhausted and hopeless, “My parents had nothing to show for all the sacrifices they had made through the years. They were old before their time, in poor health, and very tired” (p. 90). Their hard labor over several decades ends without results. Lee’s father passes away at one of his children’s houses in the 1940s, without having achieved in America what he had hoped for during his life. While Lee’s working-class Korean immigrant narrative reveals the unproductive nature of her family’s moves in America, Park’s different class circumstances result in a story that describes progressive movements toward achieving her dreams. Although her accomplishments undeniably result from talent and determination, they are only possible due to the economic and social class privileges she enjoyed in Asia and America. For Park, coming to America for advanced studies is a long-standing dream that comes true only because her family, despite its troubles, remains affluent enough to support her learning. When living in Manchuria, she has the opportunity to learn the English language from a Canadian missionary. “From this seed sprang my determination to go to America,” Park recalls: “My future and my dream home were over there in America” (p. 48). Having acquired a third language in Manchuria, she decides that she eventually wants to become a diplomat and returns to Korea to study— “another stepping stone toward my goal of an American education” (p. 51). But her pursuit of progressively more advanced education through college in Korea, and a two-year stay at Kobe College in Japan, is possible primarily because her family “had encouraged and supported me through school” (p.  115). Contrast this access to educational opportunity with that of Lee’s brother Meung, who had hoped to attend high school, but gave up at his father’s request to help support the family. As for Park, because of her family’s relative affluence and support for higher education, among all the graduates in her senior class, she is the only one who could even possibly dream of going to America for further study. The economic advantages that allow Park to acquire a college degree and move to America are in turn contributing factors to realizing her other wishes. Because she could study at University of California at Los Angeles, she had the opportunity to meet No-Yong Park in 1932 through one of his lectures. Three years later, they married—accomplishing another dream of Park’s to form a family with an educated Korean man. Though

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the couple begins their married life in the Midwest, in such places as Chicago and Kirksville, they eventually settle down in San Diego. For Park, having their own home in America means “the whole world for the sense of freedom, security, and affection it gave our family to living together under our own roof” (p. 236). Wong astutely observes that the sense of freedom Park feels when moving into this house reveals that “the immobility of the settler is not a negation of freedom but a realization of it” (p. 122). One’s mobility ideally will lead to settlement—the ultimate, desired end for those who move to and around the United States. Park’s permanent settlement in San Diego is therefore a prime example of Wong’s claims about the positive nature of immobility. So both movement and stasis are desirable. As Park moves across national borders and continental America, she attains her dreams one by one; by settling in San Diego, she paradoxically achieves arguably her ultimate wish when arriving in America—freedom. Park’s naturalization as an American citizen in 1953 is the achievement of another one of her wishes. Shortly after the implementation of the 1952 Immigration and Nationality Act, which after many years of restrictions enabled Asian nationals to become naturalized, Park became “the first and only person of Asian race in San Diego County to become an American citizen” (p.  250). (Her husband became an American citizen in 1957.) According to Park, she had considered herself a stateless person until then, because she did not claim any citizenship after the Japanese colonization of Korea. Receiving American citizenship was therefore her “re-birth” (p. 243), providing permanent and stable residency not just in her house, but in America, which for Park stands as a “Living Paradise” (p.  152), because it not only provided her with shelter after escaping colonized Korea, but also opportunities to obtain advanced education and form a family of her own. And ultimately, America turned into her legal home, where she could settle down after a series of deliberate and constructive movements toward fulfilling her life dreams.

Intersections of Gender in Korean American Women’s Mobility Women in traditional Korean culture are often associated with immobility, as they are supposed to stay home, take care of their household, and raise their children. By moving away from their families for educational

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purposes at some point in their lives, Lee and Park both go beyond these gender conventions to some extent. While less bounded by their home and family in their formative years, however, their marriages change their movements to those associated with the roles of wife and mother, as both autobiographers follow Korean male-centered traditions and fulfill their given obligations. Lee’s and Park’s devotion to their fathers and husbands, the patriarchal figures in their life narratives, rather than to their mothers or themselves (and this is especially so for Lee), speaks to the lasting impact of their native culture upon them. The nature of Lee’s and Park’s movements before their marriages suggests a degree of freedom and independence from their families. After graduating from junior high school, Lee is determined to go to high school. Her father initially opposes to the idea, so rather than depending on her poor family for support, she finds a way to continue her learning on her own by moving to Hollister, where she does housekeeping work for a white family. Though not welcome in their home at first because she is “a strange-looking thing” (p. 46), Lee eventually earns their trust by working hard and possessing skills that prove very helpful around the house. But the demands of constant domestic labor, including preparing the meals and looking after three young boys, weaken her considerably, and when at the end of the school year she returns home for vacation, she never goes back. And yet, though she must rejoin her family due to poor health, her moving away to achieve her educational goals is the product of self-­reliance and a desire for freedom. In addition, winning the trust of the white family as a result of her ability undermines the previous racial prejudice she experienced. Park’s determined movement from one place to another to achieve her educational and professional goals displays an autonomy rarely encountered in any Korean women of that generation. Driven by her desire for further schooling, she leaves Manchuria for Seoul at 16 to attend high school, goes to Japan to study abroad, and then moves to America for even more advanced studies. Park’s independence leads to a remarkable range of accomplishments and personal growth. In Japan, she not only learns a great deal about Japanese language and culture, but also develops strong friendships with some of the Japanese students, realizing that she “can be friends with Japanese anywhere I meet them” (p. 97). Despite the cruelty of colonization and her own victimization by Japanese police in the past, Park’s visit to the country alters her understanding of the people, resulting in her becoming less prejudiced and more open-minded. In

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Chicago, where she studies at the Art Institute of Chicago, one of her drawings wins first prize among the outstanding works submitted by all attending students. Through her educational successes and formidable intellectual skills, Park makes active and productive movements toward her goals in life. But after marriage, Lee’s and Park’s autonomous movements in their teenage years and/or twenties are increasingly restricted, as they assume new economic, social, and family responsibilities. Although Lee did not have to seek employment before marriage, mostly helping her mother around the home, once married she works alongside her husband. In Anaheim, she sells produce at a fruit stand, and in Willows and South Whittier she farms in the fields. She also attends to her own family at home, including her children as they arrive. When raising crops in Whittier in the 1940s, [t]here were times when I cried from exhaustion while I was working, with the sweat running down my back and stomach. It would be 8 or 9 p. m. by the time I got back from taking the workers home. The family would be waiting for me so they could eat, and then after supper I had to wash the children’s clothes and dry them in the oven so they could wear them to school the next day. (p. 97)

Lee’s long and demanding work outside the home does not free her from the housework and material responsibilities assumed to be women’s duties. But she never questions these gender roles imposed by her native, patriarchal culture, instead accepting and performing them. Lee’s devotion and submission to the male figures in the family, principally her father and husband, testify to her internalization of male-­centered customs. Most of the childhood memories she recalls are related to her father. For example, the first lesson she learns about living in America after experiencing racial discrimination was from him. He tells her to “study hard and learn to show Americans that we are just as good as they are,” and Lee observes that “I have never forgotten it” (pp. 13–14). Similarly, one incident in Riverside that “will always remain in my memory” (p. 19) is that when her father heard she needed a coat for school, he sewed it himself by hand. After her marriage, Lee’s life and narrative focus turns to her husband. She compliments him on his hard work and generosity to those he cares for, including her parents, siblings, and the family of his half-brother living in Korea. Her gratitude and admiration continue even

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after he passes away: “He left me a priceless legacy … He gave me a feeling of great solace that makes life worth living and that enables me to carry on alone. H.M. was a man of generous nature” (p. 124). Lee’s foregrounding in her life story of the patriarchal figures of her family and the lack of attention she pays to her mother, and often herself, are both the product of that lasting influence of Korean patriarchal traditions on women’s positions and roles within the family, regardless of the woman’s ambitions or accomplishments. Park’s marriage also affects her mobility and redefines her social and family responsibilities. Although she moved frequently and very freely on her own before meeting her husband, Park soon follows his decisions. During their engagement period, for instance, Park goes to live in Chicago in response to his request, because it will be a good place for them to meet more often as he travels around the country giving lectures. After their marriage, she frequently joins him on his lecture tours and vacations, meeting almost exclusively his circle of friends and acquaintances while assisting him as much as she can. During most of the time they spend together she defers to his needs rather than meeting her own, and despite her previous independence, she does not complain but takes this new dependent state for granted. Park grew up heavily influenced by the male-­ dominant culture in Asia. Her grandmother often reminded her of Confucian teachings, and Park herself recalls that “I strongly believed that virgin maidenhood was the noblest life for a girl, so I much admired Catholic and Buddhist nuns” (p. 20). Park’s higher education in Korea also instilled traditional values. When graduating from Ewha Women’s College, one of her American missionary teachers advised her: “‘You will make a good wife. Do not remain single. Marry a nice scholar and make a sweet home.’ I was very moved and promised that I would” (p.  116). Park’s native culture and Western educators at the time jointly taught her to accept the designated roles for women, and she lived up to their expectations as she made her life in America. Like Lee’s narrative, Park’s autobiography pays considerable attention to her husband. She dedicates her book to “my beloved husband, my inspiration, and my greatest teacher” (iv). Most of the events after their marriage she recounts involve his lectures, audiences, and accomplishments. Even Park’s 1980 return to Korea is to search for her deceased husband’s past, as she visits his childhood hometown and school, meets and spends time with his surviving relatives, and reconnects to what he left behind when he first departed from Korea many years earlier. “On every

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path that I walked on this island,” Park later recalls, “I always envisioned my husband’s boyhood footprints. His birthplace is now a deserted old house on the hillside … I caught a glimpse of it every day, until that last special glimpse, the day I left his home island” (p. 302). By presenting part of his early years in Korea, Park’s autobiography serves as her husband’s biography, including details about his personal life. Park therefore performed her supportive, gendered, Korean duties as a wife, and she continued to do so after his death. *** The life stories of Lee and Park, which move across national borders and around continental America, can show us how ethnicity/race, class, and gender all affect Korean American mobility. Their first departures from Korea for America and Manchuria resulted from colonial forces that pushed them out of their homeland during their childhood and adolescence and then kept them away until the country regained its sovereignty in 1945. But Lee’s and Park’s subsequent travels to and around America do not lead to the ultimate freedom often promised immigrants of a permanent and stable home, largely due to racial prejudices specifically against Asians. These women therefore had to compromise continually—with their white neighbors and the larger white community or with their own principles and desires. It is important to recognize that the class each of these women belonged to—whether the working class or a more economically and educationally privileged one—profoundly influenced their personal choices and opportunities in America. Lee’s relocations and the family’s failures show how difficult the combination of race and laboring class statuses can make living in America, whereas Park’s more fortunate circumstances made it at least possible to realize many of her dreams. Gender as well impacts the range and nature of these women’s mobility, especially after their marriage. While Lee and Park both move around rather independently until they marry, afterwards they assume to a remarkably similar degree their social and family responsibilities as Korean wives and mothers, foregrounding the patriarchal figures in their lives and life stories, as prescribed by their male-centered culture. For all their ambition and independence in other realms, they do not call into question their gender roles and allow themselves to be absorbed within them. As they describe their movements over the course of their lives, then, Lee and Park offer us significant

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information about the heterogeneous characteristics of Korean American and Asian American mobility—heavily influenced by race, but by class and gender as well. The life narratives of Mary Paik Lee and Lanhei Kim Park, therefore, address the intersections of race/ethnicity, class, and gender for Korean and Asian American women subjects, showing their divergent pictures of American life from what the myth of American mobility suggests for many others. And yet, the living experiences of their American-born descendants, such as Lee’s and Park’s children, can differ from the way the first-­ generation immigrant women have gone through. Also, life stories of the post-1965 Asian immigrant generation, most of whom have relatively better education and skills to make a living in America, may preserve the ideal image of America as a land of opportunity that enables them to improve their lives. By doing so, for many Asian and Asian American subjects and quite a few others, the mobility myth will probably continue to carry illusions of race and socio-economic status as it has since its foundation.

References Bergland, B.  A. (1994). Representing ethnicity in autobiography: Narratives of opposition. The Yearbook of English Studies, 24, 67. https://doi. org/10.2307/3507883. Kang, Y. (1931). The grass roof. Charles Scribner’s Sons. Kang, Y. (1997). East goes west: The Making of an oriental Yankee (KAYA/MUAE). Kaya Press. Kwan, K. (2014). Crazy rich Asians (Crazy rich Asians trilogy) (Reprint ed.). Anchor. New, I. H. (1928). When I was a boy in Korea. Lee & Shepard Company: Lothrop. Palumbo-Liu, D. (1999). Asian/American: Historical crossings of a racial frontier (1st ed.). Stanford University Press. Park, L. K. (1984). Facing four ways: The autobiography of Lanhei Kim Park (Mrs. No-Yong Park). Orchid Park Press. Park, N. (1929). Making a new China. Stratford Co. Publishers. Park, N. (2011). Chinaman’s chance: An autobiography. LLC: Literary Licensing. Park, N. (2021). An oriental view of American civilization (1st. ed.). Hale, Cushman & Flint. Quiet Odyssey by Lee, Mary Paik published by University of Washington Press Paperback. (1990). University of Washington Press. Román, E. M. (2017). Race and upward mobility: Seeking, gatekeeping, and other class strategies in postwar America (Stanford studies in comparative race and ethnicity) (1st ed.). Stanford University Press.

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Ronyoung, K. (1996). Clay walls. Permanent Press. Takaki, R. (1998). Strangers from a different shore: A history of Asian Americans, updated and revised edition (Revised and Updated ed.). Brown and Company: Little. Tan, A. (2006). The Joy Luck club: A novel (1st ed.). Penguin Books. Wong, S. C. (1993). Reading Asian American literature: From necessity to extravagance. Princeton University Press.

CHAPTER 4

“Then We Show Ourselves”: Resisting Immigration in Party of Five Reboot Rachel L. Grant and Hayley Markovich

In his 2016 presidential campaign, US President Donald Trump popularized the slogan “Make American Great Again.” Since then it has launched a series of political ideological understandings that have encouraged US citizens to look backward to “the good old days.” The Trump administration enhanced immigration enforcement, increased obstacles toward legal immigration, and attempted to end Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA). As a means to combat the recent US wave of nostalgia culture and politics, entertainment media creators have opened spaces of belonging for marginalized communities to share their stories. TV shows, like Charmed and One Day at a Time, have increasingly been rebooted to fit the current political climates by replacing formerly predominant white

R. L. Grant (*) University of Florida, Newberry, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected] H. Markovich University of Florida, Gainesville, FL, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_4

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casts with Latinx characters. The use of predominantly Black or Brown cast or the “browning” of Hollywood highlight larger political issues and lived experiences for audiences to consume (Mislan et  al., 2017). This chapter examines the recent reboot of Party of Five, which follows five Mexican siblings as they survive after their parents were deported. Drawing on transnational feminist studies, the study will ask the following questions: How does the TV show reshape nostalgia culture as a form of resistance? How does the show create personal narratives around political issues like immigration, LGBTQ rights, and racism?

Transnational Feminism Scholars have addressed the social understanding of “borders” and geopolitics as a means of cultural identity (Anzaldúa, 2012). In her semi-­ autobiographical work, Gloria Anzaldúa (2012) examines the hybridity of “borderlands” as a geographical area of belonging in Mexico and in the United States. She argues that a population cannot distinguish between these invisible “borders,” therefore individuals become part of both worlds, but must still meet the cultural expectation within those spaces. The divide of these “invisible” borders draws on the larger understandings of identity. They exist between a binary Western culture framework, which Anzaldúa challenges through her use of prose and poetry as well as her use of Spanish and English. Her writing style aims to resist the border divide and foster growth beyond cultural and physical spaces. As scholar Gigi Durham (2015) points out, geographical spaces are central to the process of othering. She stated that media representations are like maps because they use language, visual imagery, and symbols to represent the world. Globalization of media flows is being reordered based on political necessity. Karim H. Katrim (2000) points out that most media use the global North as a cultural reference point for geopolitical discussions. A cross-­ national connection is forged in discourses of power. Transnational feminists emphasize the agency of non-Western experiences. Scholar Chandra Mohanty (2003) argues that feminist praxis must always be sensitive to borders, “not just of nation[s], but also race, class, sexuality, religion, [and] disability.” She stated the international context of oppression emerge and can be challenged by cartography demarcations. The ability to resist and the formation of solidarity exist within configuring global images and altering Western ideology. By taking a transnational feminist approach,

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this study will explore how borders impact power and political issues addressed in the show as well as how the reboot and nostalgia culture created discursive themes.

Nostalgia Culture The reboots of shows are arguably part of nostalgia culture. Historian Daniel Boorstin (1980) foreshadowed nostalgia culture as is inherently American because it is the result of exaggerating our power to remake the world. We rely on familiar images provided to continually fulfill our expectations and reconfirm that what has happened before is superior to what is happening now (Graham, 1984). Further Graham (1984) argues that the American focus on nostalgia is not just due to detachment from contemporary issues and problems, but also its understanding and acceptance of the detachment. Urban (2001) argues that nostalgia moves us forward, forcing us to reflect on culture figuring out what the thing reminds us of, what is it building upon, and what we can learn from it. According to Niemeyer and Wentz (2014), “A nostalgic series is very often the object of its audience’s longing. At the same time, nostalgia seems to be one of the preferred subjects for television series to engage with on multiple levels” (p. 130). Ultimately, these television series can influence audience’s openness to the new ideas presented in forward-thinking nostalgic shows.

The Latinx Experience on Television Television shows like George Lopez and Ugly Betty, in the early 2000s, laid the foundation for shows telling Latinx stories, such as Jane the Virgin, to come to screen in the 2010s (Acevedo, 2019). Even with that happening, many Latinx producers argue the difficulty for them to ensure shows centered on the Latin experience to reach large, varied audiences (Acevedo, 2019). According to Tanya Saracho, creator of a Latinx-focused show Vida, on Starz, argues, “We consume culture through television now. If you live in a place that doesn’t have a lot of access to Latinx people, then television becomes a great equalizer, like a normalizer, that lets you into these worlds (Acevedo, 2019). The reboot of the show One Day at a Time originally aired on the streaming platform Netflix, but was canceled in March 2019 after three seasons, due to small viewing audiences (Ryan, 2020). One Day at a Time was a reboot of the 1970s Norman Lear classic sitcom, updated to

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represent Latinx and LGBTQ characters, as well as veteran issues such as PTSD (Li, 2019). When the show’s cancelation was announced, there was an outcry from television critics in opposition to the cancelation (Sepinwall, 2019; Framke, 2019; Ryan, 2019). There was an even larger cry from the show’s fans, including celebrities like Lin-Manuel Miranda, who all contributed to the #SaveODAAT conversation on social media (Li, 2019; Squires, 2019). By June of 2019, One Day at a Time was picked up by the network PopTV (Porter, 2019). Fans raved about the show’s Cuban-­ American family and how it was universally relatable. This Twitter campaign to save the show reflected how a reboot could be transformed into a culturally significant storyline to address current issues and the audiences’ need of diverse media representations.

Party of Five In 1994, Fox debuted the television show Party of Five. The storyline featured five white siblings, living in San Francisco, orphaned due to their parents passing away as the result of a car crash (Loynd, 1994). The five siblings, led by their oldest brother, worked together to raise each other and stay together as a family, even when threatened to be torn apart by social services (Loynd, 1994). The show, created by Chris Keyser and Amy Lippman, ended in 2000 (Party of Five, 2020). In February 2019, the network Freeform ordered a Party of Five series reboot (Otterson, 2019). The Party of Five reboot focuses on main characters with Latinx backgrounds. This series also created, written, and executive produced by Keyser and Lippman along with Michal Zebede follows the five Acosta siblings as they survive together after their parents were deported to Mexico under the Trump administration (Otterson, 2019). Zebede is a first-generation American writer with Costa Rican and Panamanian roots who was credited as the writer of two out of the show’s ten episodes. The reboot is reminiscent of the original, while also looking forward. This Party of Five does allow old fans of the show to delight in the fact that the show is back. The show’s creators looked forward to not just capitalize on reboot culture, but, “to involve people in a family’s story and at the same time educate them as to what the process is” (Turchiano, 2020b). For example, the oldest brother is the least responsible, the middle brother is maternal, and the youngest child is the smartest, following the same characterizations as the original series (Turchiano, 2020a). At the same time, the reboot provides a foundation to tell stories focusing on

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real problems Latinx families like the Acostas face: According to the show creator Amy Lippman, “When you read on the front page that kids are having to raise themselves because their parents are taken away from them, well that’s a reason to tell the story again, because it’s actually happening” (Mazria-Katz, 2019). The show’s creators were aware of the responsibility of telling the immigrant story. The producers talked to both individuals in the United States illegally, as well as DACA recipients (Turchiano, 2020b). According to Lippman, “We are trying not to pass judgement on this family and how they got here. We’re saying, ‘This happens. Let’s look at the fallout’” (Turchiano, 2020b). The creators hired writers who could authentically tell the immigrant story. One such writer was Mary Angélica Molina, who moved from Colombia to New York as a child. According to Molina (Mazria-Katz, 2019), in reference to Lippman, “Her intention was to use her brand—a thing she had created and built—in order to create a pathway for people like me to tell those stories.” Additionally, they were aware of telling the LGBTQ experience as well. According to Lipmann, while there is not a singular way to tell anyone’s story, all of the stories were told using members of each community (Villarreal, 2020).

Method Discourse produces knowledge through language, and since all social practices entail meaning, both our language and our conduct have discursive aspects (Hall, 1992). Discourse is recognized as social interaction, power and domination, communication, contextually situated, social semiosis, and a complex layered construct (van Dijk, 2009). One such way that discourse reproduces itself is through its mass media channels. Gitlin (1979) argues “ideology is relayed through various features of American television, and how television programs register larger ideological structures and changes” (p. 426). Television shows and the individuals behind them remain sensitive to the populations’ interests and perpetuate them through new formats legitimating the form of opposition (Gitlin, 1979). Further, according to Gray (2005) the conventions of television production construct a point of view that often privileges white middle-class audiences as the ideal viewer and subjects of the stories told, even if the television show centers on a non-white character or set of characters and stories. When defining Critical Discourse Analysis, Fairclough (2015) describes it as combining “critique of discourse and explanation of how it figures

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within and contributes to the existing social reality, as a basis for action to change that existing reality in particular respects” (p. 6). These respects are often elements such as power relations, ideologies, and economic and political strategies and policies (Fairclough, 2015). Power is enacted in the discourse, but there are also power relations behind the discourse (Fairclough, 2010). The use of visual discourse documents experiences as they wish to be seen and expand the boundaries of identities. In order to understand the visual discourses mediated in these representations, we took into account the unfold actions, events, or process of change and situated the images’ narratives as meaning something or belonging to a category or having certain characteristics (Van Leeuwen & Jewitt, 2001). According to scholars Popp and Mendelson (2010), images are often more efficient than text alone because they are less formal systems of syntax. The data was collected by the authors who watched the series’ ten episodes and transcribed each episode for its plot and overall theme. There was a particular focus on transnational feminist themes surrounding immigration, citizenship, and under-represented communities. After watching the series, the authors coded the data by highlighting the transcripts and searching for the discourses positioned within those themes. Because the show focuses on the Mexican American experience, the show’s themes present underlying discourses that can be placed within the current US political climate. The discourses reflect the geopolitical experiences of the show’s characters and therefore highlighting cultural nostalgia reboot as a means of resisting the hegemonic media structure. Based on our analysis, we uncovered the following discourses:

Discourse 1: Community Building as Outsiders The show centers on the Acosta children while still shedding light on the US immigration policies and practices. The Acosta children include Emilio, who’s the eldest and wasn’t born in the United States, Beto and Lucia, the fraternal twins, Valentina, the youngest sister, and Rafa, the infant brother. All the siblings, except Emilio, are second-generation immigrants. Emilio is considered as a first-generation immigrant as he was a child when his parents came to the United States. Throughout the series, the differences between first- and second-generation immigrants are highlighted. The show’s pilot sets the stage by showing the parents Javier and Gloria being taken into custody. When Javier gets a call that ICE is raiding

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the area, he notifies the restaurant’s undocumented employees, but he and Gloria are shocked when the authorities ask them for their papers. Javier tells them they have been in this country for over 20 years, but the officer tells him it’s a “different time,” referencing the Trump administration. This example reinforces the cultural shift that migrants experience politically. As power changes through US presidential administrations, the foreign policies and practices become subject to changes. According to Josue David Cisneros (2013), the political debate of the US-Mexico border shapes “the borders” of US identity. He stated this is reflected in more instances of anxiety over the sanctity of the border, increasing efforts for border security, and greater contestation over the meaning between “citizen” and “foreigner.” The show humanizes the current immigration policies as the Acosta children forming their community outside of the family independently, without their parents. While the original Party of Five series operated in a similar way, it’s the highly politicalized content in each episode that the Acostas lack the support of the government. Through the use of dialogue, the characters share statistics and information about US immigration policies and practices. For example in the pilot episode, Lucia said she read online only eight percent of these cases get reversed especially with siblings like Emilio, who has DACA to take care of the family. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals or DACA, announced in 2012, provides temporary protection from deportation to undocumented youth who came to the United States as children. The dialogue of legal cases immediately informs the audience of why children of immigrant parents are left in the care of older siblings. But it also directly addresses the DACA program as this complex government policy placed within a foreign policy struggles. DACA materialized the divide between “worthy” and “unworthy” undocumented immigrants (Anguiano & Najera, 2015). Another example of this exchange occurs in Episode 3: Long Distance with the storyline of Matthew, an undocumented Mexican teen who left his home and struggles to find employment. Lucia meets a woman who sells them her infant’s social security number to Matthew, but in a later episode five she meets the woman again and discovers that the number is a fake. The discourse of community building is placed within the buying/ selling of one’s belonging. Originally, Emilio feels like he can’t rely on others to help make his new reality easier since his parents came to the country with 50 dollars and

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didn’t rely on anyone instead solving his own problems. Yet in Episode 6: Patch Job, Natalia, Rafa’s nanny and a second-generation immigrant, tells him her own parents’ immigration story pointing out that no immigrant comes to this country and builds their life without help. She reminds him that immigrants take the hand offered by other immigrants and then reach back to help the next person. The Acosta siblings learn it’s OK to accept help and give help in return. The Acosta children find it to be their mission to aid individuals trapped in the similar status as their parents. In episode two, Matthew becomes a dishwasher at the family’s restaurant. As the family develops a sense of community against the larger political systems, the show also reflects on the more personal and emotional aspects of being an outsider. The Acosta children’s lives change and the show presents community building as an emotional experience by positioning the duality of being an outsider within. For example, in the pilot, the younger siblings suffer a decline in school and the vice principal threatens to report them to Social Services. In Episode 4: Authentic Mexican, Emilio, who begins the show as a budding lead singer of a band, is forced to leave his music career to manage the family restaurant. These examples represent the emotional toll of migrant experiences on an intimate level and highlight personhood. The “American Dream” was snatched away from the Acostas as first- and second-generation immigrants, whose parents sought better living conditions and opportunities, but the politics of citizenship continues to position the children as outsiders. The hybridity of having to assimilate to dual identities comes at a sacrifice for each of the children. The series intertwines the political with the personal in several ways, but the interactions of building community is a means for the audience to see the emotions behind a politicalized process. For example, the emotional scenes between the children and their parents features dialogue in Spanish, which adds to the emotional intimacy of a parent-child relationship. When visitation hours end at the detention center, Javier thanks Emilio in Spanish for his sacrifice in the first episode. He states, “I know that when you left home a few years ago, you never imagined you’d be back to eat dinner, much less take care of your siblings. I want you to know that your mother and I are grateful for your sacrifice. We love you for this. Emilio, we love you.” Any mixture of language become associated with identity. In the same episode, another example of this community building within language occurs when the busses arrive to take the parents to Mexico. Gloria struggles to hand the baby to Lucia. The authorities push her and Lucia yells, “She’s not less of a person.” What’s the matter with this country?”

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Javier says, “Dignity, mija. Show them who we are.” Lucia replies, “They don’t care who we are Papi. Don’t you understand that by now.” Javier demands, “We will show ourselves.” Again, through this exchange we see a cultural duality that scholars argue that exist within geopolitical spaces and identities. The Acostas’ humanity is forced to be recognized in the spaces they occupy. This identity positions the discourse of worthy citizenship requiring assimilation to US values. The emotionality usage of Spanish provides a space of resistance to political and gives agency to multi-layer identities. Through the use of interactions we see the Acosta children attempt to navigate citizenship and worthiness. For example, in the first episode, in court, Val takes the stand and tells she’s a good girl because her parents taught her to be. In another example, Javier tells the children that their case is different because they pay their taxes and employ American citizens at the restaurant. Even in the case of interacting with non-migrant communities, the outward perception of being good plays out. For example, in Episode 2: Margin of Error, the brothers are at the doctor with their baby brother and a white woman asks them, “Which one does he belong to?” They tell her both of us. She continues, “Which does he genetically belong to?” They tell her both of us. She ask them how does that work. Beto says, “Our parents got deported.” The woman goes quiet. The appearance versus the necessity to survive is a discourse of privilege. A performance of national belonging is masked by US politics that contest citizenship and US identity. Viewers see how “borders” move across individuals for good or bad. Overtime, the discourse of community building represents that borders are more than physical boundaries, but also produce a media language and visuality that define identity.

Discourse 2: Gendered Intersections Throughout the series, the intersections of gender and sexuality within the show disrupt the understanding that oppression is a monolithic experience in terms of race and ethnicity. The dimensions of Westernized gender norms are a discourse centered on power relations within US immigration and LGBT rights. By including more complex storylines surrounding gender and queer studies, the viewer is exposed to intra-group discrimination. This social hierarchy within communities of color reveals hidden oppression based on other identities. In this case, the experiences of Lucia

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and Matthew are highlighted as they navigate acceptance within the migrant community. Prior to her parents’ deportation, Lucia Acosta was perceived as the “good” twin, but her behavior changes. This first occurs in episode four when she and Val are trying to cook their Mom’s recipes. When Valentina implies she is becoming like their mother, Lucia storms out of the kitchen. Later in the same episode, she explains to Val, “It’s not about not wanting to spend time with you. It’s about not wanting to be mommy. I don’t want to be good at the things she’s good at because what if it’s all that I’m good at?” These defiant acts to Westernized maternal domestic roles continue throughout the show. For example, in episode three, when Val needs a training bra, Beto takes his sister shopping. In terms of caring of their infant brother, the siblings take turns of handling his diaper changes and late-night feedings. This redefines the roles of Western womanhood and represents the communal nature of childcare in a non-Western context. The connection between Lucia and Matthew is intertwined as they both aid each other through the process of being a queer person of color. Both characters internalize the hidden aspect of their sexuality, but the viewer sees them provide each other a safe space. Matthew tells the Acosta sisters that he left his parents in Mexico, but it is revealed that he is trans when Lucia tells him that she doesn’t want to be like her mother in episode six. Through that conversation, Matthew tells her about his mother wanted him to be girl and that’s why he left home. He also tells her that’s why he can’t renew his DACA status because his identification lists him as female. Through this gender discourse, another dimension of political power is demonstrated because the majority US immigration narratives focus on heterosexual, cisgender familial relations. The intersection of queerness and citizenship presents a multi-layered experience rarely shown in the media. For Matthew, his experience of being undocumented and queer highlights the erasure of hidden statuses. Moved by his transparency, Lucia leans in, embracing him. “I see you,” she says. This is a symbolic reference to the Undocuqueer Movement, which highlights the resistance of undocumented, queer individuals to “step out the shadows” (Seif, 2014). Unable and unwilling to fit in existing narratives by the immigrant and LGBTQ rights movements, undocuqueer emerged as a hybrid political formation that challenged

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normative notions of queer and undocumented life (Chávez, 2013; Cisneros, 2018). The actor playing Matthew, Garcia (no last name) identifies as trans nonbinary and said the creators created a comfortable space for authenticity for this storyline. They said in an interview, “The beautiful part of Party of Five is that him being trans is a part of his identity, but it’s not all of it. Obviously, there are so many layers to trans people, and also just to Matthew himself…It’s just about being able to understand the pain—the struggles and sadness” (Azzopardi, 2020). The duality of Matthew’s oppression represents how different powerful, political, and social systems force themselves on individuals. His transgender identity enables him from changing his undocumented identity because he lacks the identification and the means to change the gender on it. On a personal level, the lack of acceptance from his parents because of his transgender identity dehumanizes his migrant identity deeming him unworthy as well. The show depicts his isolation. At one point in episode six, Matthew tells Lucia, “I like my life hard, makes me feel like I’m actually living it.” Seeing Matthew’s isolation, Lucia hides her sexuality. In response to her parents’ deportation, in episode six, Lucia becomes involved with Dreams for Justice, an immigrant rights organization, where she embodies the activist role for the family. Sully, the organization’s leader, takes an interest of Lucia and takes her under her wing. In Episode 7: Speak For Yourself, their relationship becomes close and Lucia hosts a fundraiser for the organization at the family’s restaurant. In Episode 8: Dos y Dos, Sully and Lucia arrange a dinner for the activists to plan their next event, where they are all revealed to be in non-exclusive relationships with each other. A drunk Lucia questions Sully and she gets ban from the dinner. After being rejected by Sully, Lucia sleeps with a male stranger she meets at the hotel pool in Episode 9: Mexico. This experience leaves her empty. In the finale, Episode 10: Diaspora, Lucia and Matthew share a conversation where she asks him about how he knew who he was and how he embraced it. “There came a time in my life where I couldn’t be anyone else,” he says to which Lucia responds, “I’m not there yet.” By inserting the narrative of sexuality as a part of the migrant experience, this discourse challenges the dominant narrative of heterosexuality. The viewer is presented an intersectional perspective of being queer in an already marginalized community. Also, through the characters’ personal journeys the show presented the internal conflict and resistance of “coming out” and accepting one’s sexuality.

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Discourse 3: Race and Non-Western Resistance The original version of Party of Five was written through a white perspective and lacked the understanding of non-Western ideologies, but the reboot delves into these issues. As children, the Acostas must deal with whiteness and discrimination through being the “Other.” Historians Marilyn Lake and Henry Reynolds (2008) stated racial identity serves as a primary barrier to citizenship, since status-based exclusion is based on assumptions of appropriate conduct. Whiteness is a global phenomenon expressed through the imperialist and colonial ideologies of the West (Harris, 1993). As Western nations conquered different societies, they attached labels to indigenous populations as “uncivilized, savages.” According to the work of Edward Said (1978), the Western cultural perception of the world is based in “othering.” The Other gains in meaning when it is read in context, against or in connection with one another. The viewer learns from the Acosta children’s experiences that global notions of power cannot escape discrimination. For example in episode two, Lucia visited Beto’s teacher asking for her to let him retake his quiz. Lucia states, “To be honest, how well my brother understands physics has very little to do with the rest of his life. What has everything to do with it is how well he – we – can keep our family together. The world hasn’t been very kind to us lately and it’d be nice if someone could show Beto a little forgiveness.” The physics teacher uses the metaphor of giving Beto a grade he doesn’t deserve similar to the Acosta parents getting things they don’t deserve for coming to the United States illegally. In Episode 3: Long Distance, Emilio discovers that the restaurant’s liquor license is in another man’s name, who has blackmailed the family, and he ends the arrangement. After the man seeks revenge by calling a false tip that ICE is coming, Emilio and Javier get in a fight over how his father does not trust him to run the restaurant. The imperialistic notions of power reinforce inferiority. Individuals try to assert their dominance on the Acostas, not only as children, but also as marginalized group. In episode four, Lucia was being swindled by a white man who wanted to overcharge her for damaging his car. She corrects him and states, “don’t underestimate me because I make tortillas.” In the same episode, the white hostess for the party Emilio has the restaurant catering wants everything to be “authentic Mexican.” When the mariachi band doesn’t show up, she forces Emilio to wear a sombrero and sing. Her white authority of telling him about his heritage is reflection of cultural appropriation. It reinforces colonialism by taking her meaning

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of Mexican culture and using difference to make her perspective the dominant cultural understanding. In the final two episodes, flashbacks reveal Javier and Gloria’s struggles after deportation. The viewer gets a complete humanized picture that the adjustment is difficult on both sides of the border. In the beginning of the series, Valentina becomes upset over their parents not checking in as often. In episode three, an earthquake in Mexico knocks out the grid, limiting communications with the children. In the same episode, Valentina skips school to check in with their parents. In a means to help his sister adjust, Beto tells his mother to be less present so Valentina will not be as dependent on her. The Acosta siblings confront the Westernization of their ethnic identities as they try to find political status. Many second-generation immigrants have distanced themselves from negative stereotypes by highlighting their own cultural and moral affinities with the United States (Nicholls, 2013). Undocumented youth eligible for the Development, Relief and Education for Alien Minors Act (DREAM Act) have strategically foregrounded the stories of hardworking undocumented students and workers to position themselves as deserving candidates for legal status in the United States (Nicholls, 2014). The DREAM Act allows eligible undocumented youth who attended college or joined the military to legalize their status in the United Status. The culture hybridity to be seen as “worthy” of rights and still upholding your ethnic heritage is conflicted. The show reflects this as the Acosta children search for acceptance and resistance. In episode eight, Emilio admits he doesn’t feel he fits into the “Mexican” culture due to his upbringing and he realizes he has never struggled because he never saw his parents do so. Episode 2: Margin of Error focuses on religion and the Acosta siblings reflect on their Catholic upbringing. Val continues to go to confession as her mother tells her, but her other siblings do not. Lucia asks Val if she feels better after attending church. Lucia says, “What’s the point? It isn’t going to change anything.” Val says that it might. Later, Lucia goes to see Padre and tells him to stop lying to her sister about prayer bringing her parents back. He replies, “I never told your sister that prayers will bring your parents back. You and I both know that nothing will bring them back except a change in this country. All a 12 year old can do is hope for that…I don’t think you are angry about her praying. I think you are angry because she can find peace when you have none.” This episode touches on the personal connections with Westernized religion and Latinx culture. The relationship between religion and ethnicity serves as a core ethnic marker for Latinx communities. Catholicism

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displays a higher level of inculturation in the sending country and greater overt institutional acceptance of ethnic culture in host countries (Calvillo & Bailey, 2015). Nonetheless, the role of religious institutions as instruments of assimilation or Americanization is also clearly a part of US religious history (Fishman, 1972; Herberg, 1960). More encounters with whiteness occur when Valentina uses a fake name at the dance class and later in episode seven Valentina admits to Natalia that she feels safer as Amanda, the white persona she takes on in dance class. The same episode, Emilio tries to reconnect with his band when the family hosts the Dreams for Justice fundraiser at their restaurant. Because of his DACA status he can’t tour overseas and the band replaces Emilio with a white lead singer. At the event, Emilio is unable to play a song he wrote because it reflects his past life-experiences before his parent’s deportation. He officially quits his band following this, as their songs no longer fit his new life and embraces his Mexican identity, which he has continuously avoided as a first-generation immigrant. Through these lessons, the Acostas learn that they can’t escape imperialistic notions. In the United States, legislation, policy, law enforcement, and media representations construct visualities of undocumented immigrants that constitute them as social, economic, and political threats. The media enforce a distinction between immigrants and non-immigrants that clearly undermines the social position of immigrants, especially unauthorized ones (Chávez & Provine, 2009). The Acosta children feel conflicted with the assimilation and resistance they must culturally endure by the US immigration policies. With the younger siblings being legal citizens, political nature of “borders” and having to meet the cultural expectations within both spaces confront the duality of immigrant and non-immigrant (Anzaldúa, 2012). Their parents’ deportation created a dual identity that they are connected to through an immigrant experience and must resist Western ideologies. The series dealt with the children confronting the “othering” within geopolitical spaces. At the same time, their ability to resist the “invisible” borders draws on the larger understandings of children’s identity.

Conclusion The Party of Five reboot continues the use of entertainment media to address current US political issues as a means of resistance. Throughout the series, we see the Acosta children feel conflicted around their heritage and their identities. The show’s usage of the US immigration and foreign

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policy serves as a backdrop for complex storylines to disrupt the mainstream narrative. The mass media reinforce the othering of immigrants by overrepresenting them in stories of cultural subversion, welfare fraud, crime, and terrorism (Flores, 2003; McConnell, 2011). Immigrants are often compared to animals and natural disasters (Santa Ana, 2002) and represented as hypersexual (Seif, 2011) and as threats to public health (Inda, 2000). The media produces fear and shifts public opinion. Studies have found that politicians and citizens who buy into media negative stereotypes of Latino immigrants are more likely to support restrictive immigration policies (Hopkins, 2008). The Acostas’ experiences reflect how humanizing politics can affect individuality. This resistance framework challenges stereotypes, government policies, and global understandings of migration. By taking a transnational feminist approach, this study explores the geopolitics of identity and how Western influences situate meaning. In April 2020, Freeform announced the show’s cancelation. The rebooted series was hailed by Hollywood Reporter as a “rare brand reinvention with a clear and urgent purpose (Goldberg, 2020).” Viewers responded that they could relate to seeing the stories on television. According to one viewer’s tweet, “@PartyofFiveTV does it again. This show literally made me cry twice with this week’s episode. These stories hit so close to home” (Banda, 2020). While the show had strong reviews from critics it only managed a quarter million live same-day viewers. The Sony-produced series required Disney-owned Freeform to pay a licensing fee to air the show (Goldberg, 2020). The show’s cancelation reinforces a key point that US television privileges the white middle class as the ideal viewer (Gray, 2005). In some cases, this is not a bad thing. In the case of the immigration-focused Party of Five reboot, the show was written in a way that gave non-Latinx audiences a way of understanding the unfamiliar calling attention to a key political issue of the time. As discussed, television shows that feature Latinx casts are difficult to keep on television (Acevedo, 2019). The lack of focus off the Latinx experience is also visible in news cycles. For example, the immigrant experience in American news focused largely on the Trump administration policies that separated parents and children who crossed into the country illegally. At the same time, the legitimacy of Latinx individuals in the United States is constantly denied, especially in political realms. Allowing and then denying a show such as the immigration-focused Party of Five from space on television is just one example of how

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marginalized voices and experiences are not prioritized in the American media landscape. Documentary shows, like Netflix’s Immigrant Nation and HBO’s Torn Apart, expose US immigrant policies from the perspective of government authorities, but little voice is given to immigrants featured (Rivera, 2020). Instead, audiences are hit with the harsh storylines that deny Latinx communities personhood. By preventing these voices from being heard and stories from being told, it forces immigrants to continue to fit the Westernized ideals instead of allowing them and their cultures to be accepted. While the reboot culture can act as a springboard for moving forward, in the case of Party of Five, these shows were silenced preventing these stories and realities faced by immigrants from getting the attention they need.

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Ryan, M. (2020, March 20). How ‘One Day At A Time’ came back from the brink. New York Times. Retrieved from: https://www.nytimes. com/2020/03/20/arts/television/one-­day-­at-­a-­time-­pop-­tv.html Said, E. (1978). Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books. Santa Ana, O. (2002). Brown tide rising: Metaphors of Latinos in contemporary American public discourse. Austin, TX: University of Texas Press. Seif, H. (2011). “Unapologetic and unafraid”: Immigrant youth come out from the shadows. New Directions for Child and Adolescent Development, 134, 59–75. Seif, H. (2014). “Coming out of the shadows” and “undocuqueer”: Undocumented immigrants transforming sexuality discourse and activism. Journal of Language and Sexuality, 3, 87–120. Sepinwall, A. (2019, March 25). From renegade to retrograde: How Netflix is turning into traditional tv. Rolling Stone. Retrieved from: https://www.rollingstone.com/tv/tv-features/netflix-turning-into-traditional-tvone-day-time-canceled-811873/ Squires, B. (2019, March 14). Lin-Manuel Miranda is getting hyped to save One Day at a Time. Vulture. Retrieved from: https://www.vulture.com/2019/03/ lin-­manuel-­miranda-­vows-­to-­save-­one-­day-­at-­a-­time.html Turchiano, D. (2020a, January 17). ‘Party of Five’ co-creator on ‘Humbling’ moment of staffing freeform reboot. Variety. Retrieved from: https://variety. com/2020/tv/news/party-of-five-reboot-writers-roommexican-american-immigration-tca-1203471251/ Turchiano, D. (2020b, February 5). ‘Party of Five’ bosses on importance of educating audience on citizenship process. Variety. Retrieved from: https://varie t y. c o m / 2 0 1 9 / t v / n e w s / p a r t y - o f - f i v e - r e b o o t - i m m i g r a t i o n tca-interview-1203128890/ Urban, G. (2001). Metaculture: How culture moves through the world. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press. Van Dijk, T. A. (Ed.). (2009). Discourse studies: A multidisciplinary introduction. London: Sage. Van Leeuwen, T., & Jewitt, C. (2001). The handbook of visual analysis. London: Sage. Villarreal, Y. (2020, February 26). ‘Party of Five’ heads to Mexico to tackle deportation from the other side of the border. Los Angeles Times. Retrieved from: https://www.latimes.com/entertainment-­a rts/tv/stor y/2020-­0 2-­2 6/ party-­of-­five-­freeform-­reboot-­deportation-­immigration-­mexico

CHAPTER 5

Contested Citizenship: The Representation of Latinx Immigration Narratives in Jane the Virgin and One Day at a Time Claudia A. Evans-Zepeda and Zazil Reyes García

It is an important project to disrupt the normalized manner in which media features whiteness as the de facto experience. The US Latina/o/x experience has historically been ignored or denigrated, and communication studies is in dire need of interrogating the political and social inequality Latinas/o/x face, while working to undo the racist stereotypes in media that affect views of Latinas/o/x (Aldama, 2016; Aldama & Gonzales, 2019; Anguiano & Castañeda, 2014;  Báez, 2018; Beltrán, 2009; Castañeda, 2018; Dávila & Rivero, 2014; Del Río, 2006; Molina-­ Guzmán, 2018; Román, 2013; Valdivia, 2010). Given that representation of a particular ethnic or national group on television can be an affirmation

C. A. Evans-Zepeda (*) California State University, Fullerton, Fullerton, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] Z. Reyes García University of the Incarnate Word, San Antonio, TX, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_5

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for those of us who have not seen ourselves represented previously and because people form opinions about immigrant narratives based on what they see on television, whether consciously or not, the media and their influence remains an important site of analysis. While the changing landscape of the US population has brought with it a wave of shows that attempt to reflect that reality, television continues to underrepresent and misrepresent immigrants of color. In the 2014–2016 television season, only 6% of the characters were identifiable as immigrants, clashing with the percentage of the foreign-born population living in the United States which at the time was an estimated 16.9% (including undocumented immigrants) (The Opportunity Agenda, 2017). During the same season, white, European immigrants were overrepresented; they made up 48% of TV characters while all Europeans, of all races, comprised only 11.3% of the US foreign-born population (The Opportunity Agenda, 2017). Contrastingly, immigrants identifying as Latina/o/x or Hispanic made up 45% of US foreign-born population, but only 11% of televisual immigrant characters (The Opportunity Agenda, 2017). In addition to being underrepresented, 50% of Latina/o/x immigrant characters were portrayed as having committed some type of crime (The Opportunity Agenda, 2017). Thus, it seems meaningful to focus on two contemporary shows that interrupt the traditional media landscape that has largely overlooked immigrants and specifically Latinas/os/x: Jane the Virgin (JTV) and One Day at a Time (ODAAT). The two shows reflect the burgeoning Latina/ o/x viewership and embody the changing nature of the available representations by putting “Latino immigrants, including undocumented workers, at the center of the story” (Nussbaum, 2018). To effectively take up the inquiry, this chapter considers the immigration narrative by focusing on the representations of two Latina/o/x families in mainstream television. In this chapter we argue that JTV and the ODAAT remake aim to normalize Latina/o/x families as American families without erasing their Latinidad, defined as “the state and process of being, becoming, and/or appearing Latina/o” (Molina-Guzmán & Valdivia, 2004, pp. 205–6). In this chapter we offer a look at the way multi-generational narratives of citizenship advance a critical interpretation of immigration discourses within media messages by fleshing out how these two shows portray immigrant narratives in a bracingly direct way, a topic that other sitcoms seem to sensationalize, objectify, or ignore. More concretely, we examine how JTV and ODAAT address three main themes: (1) Different pathways to

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residency/citizenship, (2) the experience of being undocumented, marked by discrimination and fear of deportation, and (3) political consciousness and activism in relation to immigration. We analyze the narratives and images of the families featured in these two shows who are shown to be affected by the hardline stance against undocumented immigrants of the Trump administration, thereby outlining how certain storylines function to present a more progressive understanding of the undocumented experience, and thus, expand beyond the problematic dominant discourse of Latinx migrants. By examining these artifacts, we bring attention to the contemporary iterations of Latina/o/x representations in the history of mainstream TV shows and conclude with the implications of the evolution of the stereotypes of migrant Latina/o/x.

Lit Review: Representations of Latinas/os/x in US Media Media plays a unique role in introducing and reinforcing views about the social world and the people in it (Mastro et al., 2009). Stuart Hall (1997) is a pivotal figure who reminds us that representation plays a role in the meaning-making process where power relations are established, making it that much more important to examine the production and circulation of media. Beyond decoding the media messages, we argue for a “critical racial literacy,” which was first developed by Lani Guinier, a professor of law and critical race scholar. She stressed the capacity to understand race in different contexts and circumstances and the need for us to be better equiped in understanding the subtle yet complex ways in which race works in the twenty-first century  (Guinier, 2004). This concept of developing media literacy skills to interrogate political and social inequality has been aptly applied to Latinas/o/x and the ways in which racist stereotypes affect how we view ourselves and how others view us (Alemán & Alemán, 2016; Yosso, 2002). Thus, we centralize our analysis in the recognition that racial literacy requires familiarity with structural racism, and like Yosso (2002) we argue for the need to recognize, analyze, and critique systems of inequity and the commitment to take action against these systems. We begin our review of existing scholarship with Latina/o/x representations in US popular culture, and more specifically of immigrant Latina/ o/x in the media. While this literature review is not comprehensive in nature, in it we do highlight some of the work focused on representations

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of Latinas/o/x featured in visual media such as television, film, and advertising, where much scholarship has centered on how these representations construct Latinidad and Latina/o identity (Avila-Saavedra, 2010; Dávila, 2012; Sowards & Pineda, 2011). Significant work has also been done on the century-long patterns of stereotypical representations which persist today and the difficulty of subverting such stereotypes (Beltrán 2009, 2016; Mastro & Behm-Morawitz, 2005; Ramírez-Berg, 2002; Rodríguez, 2004, 2018). Ramírez-Berg (2002), for instance, examines film representations and identifies six Latina/o/x stereotypes: “el bandido, the harlot, the male buffoon, the female clown, the Latin lover and the dark lady” (p. 66). He argues that “stereotyping of Latinos … has been and continues to be part of an American imperialistic discourse about who should rule the hemisphere—a sort of ‘Monroe Doctrine and Manifest Destiny Illustrated’” (4, 5). In the edited volume Latina/o Communication Studies Today, various authors examine existing Latina/o/x media and the quality of representations within the intersections of gender and ethnicity (Valdivia,  2008). This area of research includes significant work on sexualized and racialized representations of Latinas and their bodies across media and pop culture that addresses both stereotypes and transgressions to these stereotypes (Báez, 2007; Esposito, 2012; Molina-Guzmán, 2010; Molina-Guzmán & Valdivia, 2004; Valdivia, 2007, 2008). Additionally, there are a number of studies that focus on audience reception of these portrayals, that is, how Latina/o/x and White audiences read these images (Báez, 2018; Figueroa-­ Caballero et al., 2019; Leon-Boys, 2019; Mastro et al., 2008). The work of prominent figures like Valdivia and Garcia (2012) and contributors to Latina/o media studies in communication have also evidenced ways in which Latinas/os/x must continually assert their belonging and citizenship, which will be the focus of the next section. Migrant Latinas/os/x in US Media There is an abundance of research that makes clear that Latina/o/x immigrants are overwhelmingly depicted negatively in mainstream media, a public discourse that is reproduced through various media channels, including news, movies, and advertising. Such literature in communication studies provides important context for the form and function of immigrant narratives in media by featuring the problematics of its conservative and neoliberal rhetoric (Beltrán, 2009; Flores, 2003;

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Molina-Guzmán, 2006, 2010; Sowards & Pineda, 2011; Valdivia, 2010). Cisneros (2008), for instance identifies how metaphors such as “immigrant as pollutant” are present in news media discourses and how they concretize immigrants in racialized ways that link them to criminality, which in turn operates to support anti-immigrant sentiment. Similarly, in Brown Tide Rising, Santa Ana (2002) finds that in the 1990s, US news media use metaphors for outsiders, invaders, disease, and animals to refer to Latinos, especially in the context of immigration. In The Latino Threat, Chavez (2013) makes clear how Latinas/o/x have long been represented in ways that invite viewers to fear and loathe them. He argues that Latinas/o/x are constructed differently from other immigrant groups and represented as “unwilling or incapable of integrating” to the United States (p.  3). Furthermore, we are seen as invaders and therefore as a threat to “the American way of life” (p. 3). Like Chavez (2013), Cisneros (2015), and Santa Ana (2002), Flores (2003) analyzes public discourse in news media and identifies the rhetorical transition of Mexican immigrants, from docile peon laborers in the 1920s to dangerous “illegal aliens” in the 1930s. Films perpetuate this further as featured in the analysis of the theme of alienhood which is shown as prevalent in contemporary Hollywood films (Lechuga & Calafell, 2014). Additionally, Yajaira Padilla (2009) connects Latina/o/x migrant representation to the paradox that characterizes Latinas/os/x simultaneously as being lazy immigrants who drain the system, and as hard-working ‘noble’ immigrants, such as in the quintessential reoccurring caricature of the (undocumented) Latina maid, who can be incorporated if she exists in a domesticated “non-threatening manner” (p. 44). Migrant Latinas/os/x in TV When it comes specifically to fictional content on television, there is fewer research available that highlights the migrant experience. Academics have focused on television programs by featuring examples of shows that provide audiences with the visual resources to imagine the life of an undocumented immigrant and opportunity to identify or reject that mediated experience (Cisneros, 2015). But the majority of research that focuses on more contemporary shows that feature Latinas/os/x has centered on the George Lopez Show (Markert, 2004) and Ugly Betty and how both reinforce and challenge stereotypes about Latinas/os/x in the United States (Esposito, 2009, 2012; Katzwe, 2011). Ugly Betty in particular has

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received more attention and has also been studied from the perspective of Latinidad and authenticity (Sowards & Pineda, 2011) and how it addresses issues of citizenship and immigration (Amaya, 2010; Sowards & Pineda, 2013). Expanding to other media, Sowards and Pineda (2013) feature the construction of sympathetic immigrant narratives in US popular culture in ABC’s Ugly Betty, while also featuring other media sites like music (Chicano band, Los Lobos’s 2006 album, The Town and the City) and a documentary (CNN Presents “Immigrant Nation”). Even though their chosen artifacts are wide ranging, they have the common theme of focus[ing] on the illegal, undocumented, or unauthorized entry into the United States, reducing the immigrant experience to the act of border crossing and reifying the border spectacle that has come to play out in U.S. news media… Moreover, the images in these cases fetishize class, race, ethnicity, and gender through the emphasis on Mexicanidad. (p. 79)

They argue that first, personalized narratives of the immigrant experience reify stereotypes; second, audiences may engage in polyvalent readings resulting in many of them being unable or unmotivated to understand immigrants in new ways; and third, these narratives individualize responsibility resulting in immigrants being blamed for their own problems while reinforcing neoliberal politics of immigration. Much of the critique of the representation of immigration stories in the media focuses on how these perpetuate misconceptions of the process of illegality through the act of border crossing, ignoring that a large percentage of migrants lose status by overstaying their temporary visas. Ultimately, seeing this myth over and over in media narratives is a mechanism to “scapegoat undocumented immigrants and contribute to the growing hatred of the undocumented immigrant who crosses the border illegally” (p. 80). A comprehensive view of the television medium exists in the work by Isabel Molina-Guzmán, who analyzes media through a critical lens and focuses on comedies in her book Latinas and Latinos on TV (2018). In it she argues that Ugly Betty and similar narratives rely on “the trope of the ‘American dream’” (p.  120). Her critique highlights the fact that while contemporary comedic TV shows seem to add “diversity” to the media landscape, they just as easily fall prey to a color-blind philosophy, contributing to the erasure of the Latinx community with their continued stereotypical depictions. Molina-Guzmán also recognizes that color conscious TV programs, for instance, the CW’s Jane the Virgin or ABC’s Blackish,

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develop characters with ethnic and racial cultural experiential specificity and thereby more complexity. Thus, post-racial-era TV comedies are often both progressive and regressive at once (p. 9). In its most regressive form, the laughter surrounding ethnic and racial minority characters in post-­ racial era TV is grounded on what Catherine Squires terms “hipster racism” or implied racism (as cited in Molina-Guzmán, 2018, p. 9). Taken together, this review of scholarship on representations makes it clear to see that mainstream media contribute to a particular view of Latinas/os/x that perpetuates migrants as “other.” However, it does not negate that media can produce different representations. Television shows, in particular, can participate in the communicative exchange that enables dominant representations to be challenged, rejected, and/or transformed through mechanisms such as the articulation of oppositional representations (Hall, 1973). Just as dominant-hegemonic positions exist, we can recognize the possibilities of an oppositional reading and examine how ODAAT and JTV are bringing an alternative ideological code to the media portrayals of immigrants. Immigration flows have affected demographics, and the emergence of bilingual and English-speaking Latina/o/x millennials means new possibilities of offerings from the media industry. Perry (2016) argues that “while media presents a particular, industry-supported, and often conservative view of immigration, gender and race, media also opens up spaces for alternatives” (p. 25). Working from this premise—that there can be alternative ways in which Latina/o/x migrants are portrayed—leads us to work from Del Río and Moran’s (2020) article on One Day at a Time, which focuses on how the show takes advantage of digital platforms to represent a culturally specific Cuban American family. The article focuses on how the first season of the show approaches sexual identity and immigration and uses Latina/o critical communication theory to show the advances made by this show on the representations of Latina/ o/x. In that vein, next we feature our media artifacts, contextualizing the shows Jane the Virgin and One Day at a Time.

Artifacts: Jane the Virgin and One Day at a Time Adapted from the Venezuelan telenovela Juana la Virgen, Jane the Virgin (JTV), ran for five seasons on the CW network, from 2014 to 2019. In addition to being broadcasted on network television, JTV was made available to a wider audience via streaming on Netflix. JTV was well received by critics and audiences alike, earning numerous award nominations

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through its five- year run and winning a Golden Globe for the protagonist, Gina Rodriguez. The show tells the story of a young woman, Jane, who is accidentally artificially inseminated. It focuses on her life as part of an American Venezuelan family composed by Jane, her mother Xiomara  (played by Andrea Navedo), and her abuela, Alba  (played by Ivonne Coll). JTV has received praise for “bringing three passionate, flawed Latina leading ladies to the screen” and for creating “a cross-­ cultural accomplishment done so seamlessly and sincerely that it’s difficult to remember what entertainment looked like before this show upended our lives in 2014” (Aviles, 2019). We also examine One Day at a Time (ODAAT), a remake from the 1975 to 1984 sitcom. The original version centered on the life of Ann Romano, and it was one of the first television shows to prominently feature a divorced working mother with children (Savage, 2017). The remake portrays the Alvarez family, also composed of three generations of women. The show’s lead characters are a 38-year-old Cuban American nurse and Afghanistan war vet named Penelope Alvarez (played by Justina Machado), her 14-year-old enthusiastic activist teen daughter, Elena (played by Isabella Gomez), her 12-year-old son, Alex (played by Marcel Ruiz), and the family’s abuelita, Lydia Alvarez, (played by Oscar winner Rita Moreno). These television series are apt examples of the multi-­generational stories of migration in contemporary media. In what follows, our media content analysis examines the conceptualization of how migration is presented, featuring three emergent and reoccurring themes: the tensions in the narratives of citizenship, ways the shows explicitly engage in discourses of discrimination and fear of deportation, and political consciousness and activism.

Analysis Narratives of Immigration and Citizenship While the narratives we mostly see in the media are ones that represent classed and racialized accounts of Otherized immigrants in the United States, we argue that JTV and ODAAT offer alternatives to these mainstream narratives in the storylines of the first-generation matriarchs. In JTV, a young Alba and her husband Mateo migrate from Venezuela to the United States in search for a “better life.” But unlike most immigrant stories, they are not fleeing poverty or violence. According to the storyline,

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Mateo Villanueva belonged to a rich oil family in Venezuela, but renounced it all to marry Alba and move to the United States. In season 4 we learn that Alba and Mateo did not enter the United States illegally but overstayed their tourist visas. Even though visa overstays have outnumbered illegal border crossings for roughly the last decade, we rarely see these stories in the media (Warren, 2019). Alba is not the only character whose immigration status is highlighted in JTV. In season 3 Alba meets Jorge, the manager of the hotel gift shop that belongs to Rafael, one of Jane’s romantic interests. Jorge and Alba’s relationship becomes an important storyline in the show. Eventually, Alba learns that Jorge is undocumented. He tells her he tried to obtain his green card, but his lawyer swindled him and now he is scared of losing his job. At the end of season 3, Alba obtains her citizenship and marries Jorge so he can get a green card and travel to Mexico to visit his dying mother. Through the stories of Alba and Jorge we learn of two different pathways to citizenship, and also of some of the painful implications of being undocumented and unable to travel freely. In ODAAT, the main immigration story is that of Lydia’s, who migrates from Cuba to the United States for political reasons. In episode 9 of season 1 Lydia shares how she fled Castro’s regime as a teenager in 1962: “Castro. La Revolución. The Catholic Church had a program called Pedro Pan that invited the Cuban children to come over. And they gave us our papers. And I RSVP’d ‘Yes.’ It’s my little joke. There was no RSVP.”1 Although there was no RSVP, the joke does point to the privileges that Cuban immigrants enjoyed for decades. Since 1966, Cubans have qualified for a green card after one year in the United States and for citizenship five years later, even if they entered the country illegally (Rimer, 2015).2 This is a path to citizenship that no other foreign-born people have in the United States, and the show does not explicitly address it. Perhaps it is because of these policies that in the second season the Alvarez’s are shocked to find out that Lydia stayed a green card holder instead of requesting citizenship.

1  The Operation Peter Pan (or Operación Pedro Pan) was a clandestine mass exodus of over 14,000 unaccompanied Cuban minors ages 6–18 to the United States over a two-year span from 1960 to 1962. 2  Things started to change with the Obama administration and more restrictions have been put in place by the Trump administration.

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While shows like Jane the Virgin, Ugly Betty, and The Fosters have featured the experience of being undocumented in the United States, the default story of who is considered “illegal” is presented differently in ODAAT. In the fifth episode of season 1, Schneider, the Alvarez’ wealthy white landlord turned family friend discloses that he immigrated to the United States illegally from Canada. When someone says, “so you’re an illegal immigrant” Schneider responds: “we prefer undocumented.” The audience is in on the satire of his “plight” of being “forced to live in the shadows of Pepperdine university.” At one point, Penelope retorts that it “must have been very brave coming here with everything, knowing the entire language and struggling to unlearn the metric system.” To which Schneider replies “I sense a liter of sarcasm, and it’s fine, my lawyer made it go away.” It is worth noting that Schneider’s experience with a lawyer clashes with Jorge’s in Jane the Virgin. In that case, the show highlights that the people who are meant to help immigrants, sometimes do not. The lawyer made Jorge’s situation worse by disappearing with his money. In Schneider’s case, a lawyer “fixed it”; it being his legal status. These contrasts speak to how the intersection of race and class results in very different experiences with the immigration process. We also see these different experiences in ODAAT, where Elena’s friend Carmen finds herself having to move to Texas to live with her brother after her parents are deported to Mexico. While both Lydia and Alba are shown to have a sort of “happy ending” episode when the abuelas become citizens, these narratives play out in unique ways that also bring parts of the complicated notions of the immigration process. While dominant discourses make citizenship the resolute solution to “immigration problems,” these shows expose a differing angle and complicate the notion that US citizenship is the best thing that can happen to an immigrant. ODAAT, for example, tells the story of Lydia’s resistance to become a US citizen for fear of losing her Cubanness. In an episode titled “Roots” (S2, Ep4), Lydia reveals to her family that she never became a US citizen because she didn’t want to give up on a country that still felt like home. Lydia has postponed becoming a citizen over anxiety of losing a part of herself. Lydia’s explanation of her status is simple: “Cuba is home,” and thus becoming a US citizen feels like a betrayal of her Cuban identity. This is an interesting contrast to Carmen’s case, who in season 1 is shown grappling with the deportation of her Mexican parents. In her case, the narrative focuses on how Carmen’s home is the United States and stresses the

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fact that she was born here [in United States] and that “she’s never been to Mexico, not even Cabo” (S1, Ep5). In season 2 Elena, who is positioned in the show as the “woke/progressive/defiant” granddaughter, presses her abuela to consider the risk of continuing to remain a green card holder, asking “What if one day they decide to send all non-citizens back to where they came from?” At the end of that episode, we see Lydia on the balcony smoking a Cuban cigar while she reads the US citizenship manual. Later in the season, in an episode titled Citizen Lydia, both Lydia and Schneider become American citizens in a continuation of the first season’s intention to create a juxtaposition of these divergent characters and their immigrant stories (S2, Ep12). Showrunner Kellett highlighted the importance of that juxtaposition: “We talked a lot about the ease of becoming a citizen and how it’s easier for some people than it is for others” (Leeds, 2018). JTV also features the element of fear as provoking the push toward the grandmother character applying for citizenship. Throughout several seasons we follow Alba’s process from disclosing her status early in season 1 (Ep8) to the moment that she is preparing for her citizenship test in season 4 (Ep15). After failing her citizenship test once, Alba scores 100 on her second attempt and celebrates with Xo and Jane at the US citizenship and immigration services office: “¡Voy a ser ciudadana Americana!” (I’m going to be a U.S. citizen!).3 As the camera closes in on the three Villanueva women, we see how the stars of a US flag in the background start to fly and swirl around an ecstatic Alba. Then, the paintings in the office come alive, and we see the founding fathers clapping for her, and the statue of liberty tells her: “Felicidades Alba. Esta tierra es tú tierra” (Congratulations Alba, this land is your land). Alba’s smile almost fades when her eyes come to rest on the photo of President Trump. But before that happens, his image is transformed into Obama, who winks at her, providing a happy ending. We find this move interesting, since in earlier seasons the show did criticize immigration policies under the Obama administration. But in this episode, they seem to forget that Obama was 3  It’s important to note that through most of the five seasons of Jane the Virgin, Alba speaks Spanish and her dialogues are subtitled in English. There are counted exceptions for when she speaks English, for instance, when she’s giving a speech to thank those who attend her citizenship party. We understand the use of Spanish as an important political move and therefore we seek to replicate it here by providing the original Spanish dialogue followed by its English translation. We also made a deliberate choice to not use italics for the Spanish dialogue to avoid othering its use.

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known as “deporter-in-chief” by immigration activists. These are important complexities and in the next section we focus more explicitly on the ways the two series are transparent about the challenges of the multigenerational migrant experience. Discrimination and Fear of Deportation While both the Alvarez and the Villanuevas celebrate the citizenship of their abuelas, it is clear that the main thing to celebrate is saying goodbye to the fear of deportation and the instability that comes with lacking a citizen status. Early in season 1 of JTV we learn that Alba has been living undocumented and in fear of being deported for 40 years. The threat of her deportation is a recurring conversation in the show. When in season 4 she’s close to getting her citizenship, her daughter Xo exclaims: “I can’t believe she’s gonna be a citizen. My whole life I had this fear in the back of my head” (S4, Ep17). Alba herself, when thanking those who come to her citizenship party, says: “I spent so many years worrying about being separated from all of you. And I am so grateful that I will never have to worry about that again!” (S4, Ep17). In ODAAT the fear of deportation becomes real when Carmen’s parents (Elena’s friend) are deported to Mexico. In the following dialogue Carmen and Elena explain the situation to Penelope (Elena’s mom): Carmen: “My parents didn’t do anything wrong. They both work two jobs. I’m on scholarship at St. B’s, and I get good grades. We’re a normal American family. We had tickets to see Frozen on Ice.” Elena: “I can’t believe they sent your parent’s back home.” Carmen: “They didn’t send them home, they sent them away.” While the episode is able to present the challenges and difficulties of navigating the path of citizenship, it is still very clear about making the argument for Carmen’s parents on the basis of their assimilation to the normative “American” identity, signaling that they are deserving based on their hard work (meritocracy). Furthermore, like other young Latinas/ os/x, Carmen is distanced from her ethnic identity (e.g., she has never been to her parent’s homeland) and the emphasis on her parents’ lack of criminality in addition to the fact that they considered themselves

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“American” privileges the narrative for migrants to be welcomed only if they conform to the normative identity. While the immigrant stories mainly feature and focus on the first-­ generation grandmothers, ODAAT also shows that being of the third generation does not protect you from being the victim of racism. There is an episode where Alex, Penelope’s teenage son, hits another kid after he’s told to “Go back to Mexico!” when he’s speaking Spanish to one of his friends (S2, Ep1). JTV also addresses discrimination in the Trump era. In season 3 (Ep17), Alba is upset about ICE raids after reading the newspaper but declines Jane’s invitation to participate in a protest. Later that day, while working at the hotel’s giftshop, Alba witnesses an act of discrimination that prompts her to change her mind. In the store, a white woman confronts a Latina costumer who is speaking Spanish and tells her: “This is America, you should learn how to speak English!” A mortified Alba tells the Latina costumer: “Lo siento, debi haber dicho algo pero me quedé en shock” (I’m sorry, I should have said something, but I was in shock). To this the narrator responds: “We all are Alba, we all are.” After the store incident, Alba holds a constitution in her hand and tells Jane she should have cited it for the white woman. The narrator again interjects: “Damn, Alba is getting all PC on us (on screen they type PC: Pocket Constitution).” When Alba says she would have liked to do something, Jane reminds her she still can, and in the following dialogue we see how the show again addresses the fear of deportation but also the importance of Latina/o/x immigrants’ increasing political consciousness: Jane: Alba: Jane: Alba:

You should do something; you clearly want to. You should march No puedo (I can’t) Why not!? Por los agentes del ICE Jane, están por donde quiera por todos lados. Pueden quitarme mi green card (well the ICE agents Jane, they are everywhere and they could take my green card).

JTV also tackles directly the issue of anti-immigrant sentiment, having young Mateo ask why people “no want bisa in this country”—“bisa” is short for bisabuela which translates as great grandmother. Jane replies: “that’s a good question and a really hard question” and then tells Mateo that the country was built by people from all over the world, like his great

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grandma. Jane assures Mateo that no one will take his “bisa” away. In both shows there is a direct acknowledgment of the interpersonal cost/pain from xenophobia and nativism and the effect it has on the different generations of family members. Political Consciousness and Activism Another distinct theme of both shows is that they make political statements and feature calls for action. In the first season of JTV, in one of the shows satirical takes on Latin American soap operas, Alba is pushed down a flight of stairs. While she is in the hospital in a comma, in the middle of a storm, the doctor finds out she’s not a legal citizen and tells her daughter Xo that she could be deported upon waking up: Doctor:

“Your mother is in this country illegally. She doesn’t have insurance and the hospital can’t afford to absorb the cost of her care. When the hurricane lifts, we will have to notify I.C.E. and they will deport her to Venezuela where she can continue to receive care if she needs it.”

Xo reacts with surprise, “that can’t be legal!” and the narrative is meant to move the audience into heightened awareness. The scene is followed by a call to action for the audience. First, the narrator confirms, “Yes this really happens. Look it up.” His statement is followed by a hashtag on the screen: #ImmigrationReform. In an interview with the showrunner Jennie Urman, she addresses her intentional approach to feature the topic explicitly, noting “Immigration and immigration reform is something that we always knew we were going to touch on. It affects so many families in the Latino community, it’s something our country is grappling with, and it’s something that we feel strongly about in our writer’s room” (Orley, 2015). The story plays out that the issue was resolved quickly, which also reinforces the idea that with the right connections one can bypass these obstacles. The world is easier to navigate from a position of means. In this case, Rogelio, Jane’s father and famous telenovela star, is shown attempting to use his “fame and money” to prevent Alba from being deported, and while the storyline resolves itself with another character being the one who keeps her from deportation (Jane’s love interest Michael uses his role as a police officer), it is interesting to see JTV both critique the Obama administration and then position him more sympathetic than Trump at the time Alba gets her citizenship.

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Interestingly, both shows feature an intergenerational difference which positions progressiveness in the third generation and demonstrates the stark difference in both the material reality and the worldview/perspectives between their generation and their grandmothers’ generation. However, in Alba’s character, JTV presents a journey of political awareness. As discussed in the previous section, after Alba witnesses a white woman telling a Latina to speak English, she changes her mind about participating in an immigration rights march and even tries to bring Jorge with her. When he declines saying, “I am not a political person,” Alba rebuts: “pero, con las cosas que están pasando ahora en el mundo a lo mejor debemos serlo” (but, with everything happening in the world right now maybe we should be) (S3, Ep17). Later, in season 4, when Alba prepares for her citizenship test, we witness another example of her increasing political consciousness as evidenced in the following dialogue: Jane: Is Puerto Rico a State? Alba:  No, it is a Commonwealth and unincorporated territory… Y entonces ¿por qué les cobran impuestos? (So then, why are they charging them taxes?) At this point “Preach!” And on the screen, we see the hashtag the narrator yells out: #notaxationwithoutrepresentation. Similarly, ODAAT addresses political issues that are important to Latinas/o/x in general, but in particular to Latina/o/x immigrants. Season 4, for example, opens with an episode about the 2020 census, where they address the fear some families may feel in answering questions from a representative of the government, the fact that the census does not ask about people’s citizenship, and the political importance of being counted. Beyond bringing awareness to the migration experience, there are more material ways which are discussed as supportive actions the viewers can take on behalf of migrants. For example, both shows emphasize the importance of voting. Voting is featured as strategy in Jane the Virgin. In season 2, as Alba takes steps toward becoming a citizen, the show urges viewers to vote in the upcoming 2016 presidential election. In episode 5 Alba has commenced her citizenship request, but Xo’s past involving taking the blame for grand larceny for an old boyfriend who stole jewelry interferes with Alba’s plan for citizenship. Jane asks if this felony charge will make it harder for her grandmother to become a citizen and the lawyer answers, “Possibly, I’m not really sure. Immigration laws are constantly

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changing.” Followed by the words “#vote, #vote, #vote” onto the screen in red, white, and blue. It is implied that to achieve equity, one must engage in the political process and demand change from decision-makers. JTV continues to show how Alba fears and risks deportation. This is a departure from Lydia from ODAAT who does not, although her family fears that the Trump administration poses a threat to her security. They articulate the concern that being a resident is not enough, and we do hear of others being deported. ODAAT discloses Lydia’s immigration status through a discussion about voting. Elena learns Lydia doesn’t vote because she’s not a citizen and we hear Lydia confess why she has not applied for citizenship (S2, Ep4). In focusing on the fact that being a green card holder does not protect you from deportation, Elena emphasizes that “we live in anti-immigrant times.” Thus, voting becomes a centralized action that Elena argues matters even more “now we have that monster in the White House!” While Trump’s name was not directly spoken the entirety of the first season, the show alluded to the political context of the 45th president. As we show next, the dialogue from the first and fourth season, the characters become more explicit and direct in naming and critiquing Donald J. Trump. A prime example of the progressive political consciousness and interrogation of racism in the immigration system is evident in the middle of season 1 of ODAAT. In this episode Penelope hosts a dinner party with her co-workers and the entire focus of the interaction centers on the divergent perspective that Latina/o/x can have on the issue of immigration. In this exchange, the show features Lydia as more conservative on her views of immigration restrictions, as she notes that everybody should follow the rules. Her stance is based on her experience as a Cuban immigrant. Penelope’s cisgender male colleague, Scott, agrees with Lydia’s views and states, “at least you did it the ‘right way’,” highlighting a common anti-­ immigrant adage that presumes there is a “right way” and “wrong way” to immigrate. The dialogue continues to flesh out this position, with Scott asking, “what’s so wrong about saying they should follow the rules? You want to come to America? Get in line.” Penelope then admonishes the misconception that comes with the myth about the “right way to immigrate” by describing a more accurate perspective on the complexity of the immigration system (S1, Ep5), “oh, the one that’s ten years long, full of hard-working people that will do jobs that some Americans won’t do? Like picking fruit”

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Scott:

It’s just the country’s full up. Like a bar. It was free before 8:00pm, but now you gotta pay a cover. Sorry, but we can’t take everybody. Penelope: [scoffs] Lydia: El bobo is right. Penelope: What? Lydia: Everyone should follow the rules! I did, Schneider did. Schneider: I did not, actually. Lot of lawyers, lot of fines. Penelope: Mami, seriously? What you went through was terrible. But at least, you had a place to go, and you were welcomed with open arms. There are persecuted people all around the world who would love the opportunity to come here, but they can’t. Because the rules are different for different people. So, some of them break the law and they do what they have to do to fight for better lives for themselves and their families. And you know what? I get it. Penelope and her daughter are characters who are US citizens who are shown as being more sympathetic to the conditions that create the need for migration. Also unique to the television medium is that the episode features a conversation of the different ways that people can lose status and the often-overlooked discussion about an overstayed visa. This is striking because typically the migration narrative features border crossing (Sowards & Pineda, 2013). This scene also juxtaposes Lydia as a person of color (albeit with lighter skin) to Schneider’s experiences as a wealthy cis-­ gendered white male. When Schneider explains that “lawyer made all okay,” the show is essentially pointing to how wealth and white privilege provide opportunities for some to have a very different immigrant experience. More so than Jane the Virgin, through its first three seasons, ODAAT sprinkles in references to President Trump by calling him “el bobo,” which translates as fool or stupid. The show addresses issues of immigration, discrimination, and deportation but generally refrains from explicitly naming the president. That is, until season 4, where COVID-19 forced the show (now on cable channel Pop) to do an animated episode voiced by the actors. In “The Politics Episode” (S4, Ep7) the Alvarez’s prepare to welcome their Maga hat-wearing family for a one-week visit. Throughout the story Penelope thinks through what she’ll say to them, and she

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addresses racism and anti-immigrant sentiments in the following monologue prepared for her conservative cousin: I miss that. Us being on opposite sides isn’t new but now it’s different. This guy made it different. People used to hide their racism, but the president made it cool again. We have to stand up for one another, now more than ever. That’s why we need to say ‘Black Lives Matter. Trans Lives Matter. Brown Lives Matter.’ When he calls Mexicans drug dealers and rapists, you think that doesn’t affect you? Do you think if your son was in that Walmart where the guy said he was there to shoot all the Mexicans; he would have stopped to ask if Flavio was Cuban before pulling the trigger? He wouldn’t have cared, because the president told him immigrants are dangerous and don’t deserve to be here.

Such direct acknowledgment of oppression is unique because it takes into consideration the heart of these contemporary forms of discrimination and racism, hinging on white supremacy, which exist at the expense of people of all color. In centralizing the coalitional possibilities of uniting with other marginalized groups, Penelope is also breaking down the US cultural narrative about racism which typically focuses on individual racism and fails to notice structural racism and how white supremacy is at the core of systemic racism (Tatum, 2017).

Conclusion It is clear that the depictions of immigrants and their US-born children in ODAAT and JTV mediated narratives expand our understanding of how to negotiate US “American” identity and ask audiences to complicate their preconceived ideas about the immigrant experience. Our analysis of these two contemporary shows evidences some fascinating parallels and themes, including widened stories of citizenship, naming the reality of fears of deportations and explicit politicized storylines that insert possibilities for the audience to engage in activism. Moreover, we argue that these shows help audiences to widen their critical racial literacy in relation to immigration narratives. The importance of these shows goes beyond the two grandmothers’ retelling the difficulties of their initial migration journeys. While we see the consequences, both good and bad, for them leaving their families behind and finding themselves alone in a new country, it is gratifying to

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see the migrant experiences of these women are interwoven into the storyline with episodes that purposefully center them. In analyzing both series in their entirety we are able to showcase the evolving perspectives of both shows and appreciate the way the shows become bolder in their progressive perspective toward migration rights. In this current political climate—with a shift from veiled racism to obvious expressions of xenophobia—we as media scholars and practitioners are distinctively poised to further the national discourse about migrants and engage in strategic documentation of media texts that can help alter anti-­ migrant perspectives. As media communication scholars we have a responsibility to confront racial injustice and continue to ask that media reflect a resistance to white supremacy and anti-Latinx/migrant sentiment and present the benefit of migration and crossing borders. In looking at these two shows we can envision new narratives that speak to a new generation of media that opens up future possibilities.

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CHAPTER 6

Immigrants Make America Great: A Textual Analysis of Bob Hearts Abishola Nathaniel Frederick II, Omotayo O. Banjo, and Emmanuel Nwachukwu

In January 2018, The Washington Post (Dawsey, 2018) reported a meeting held in the Oval Office of the White House about protecting immigrants from Haiti, El Salvador, and African countries as part of a bipartisan immigration deal. “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries come here?” President Donald Trump said, according to people briefed on the meeting. It is not the first time reports have surfaced of President Trump speaking unfavorably about immigrants. According

N. FrederickII (*) Winthrop University, Rock Hill, SC, USA e-mail: [email protected] O. O. Banjo College of Arts & Sciences, University of Cincinnati, Cincinnati, OH, USA e-mail: [email protected] E. Nwachukwu Savannah State University, Savannah, GA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_6

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to the New York Times (Shear & Davis, 2017), during a summer 2017 meeting, Trump also targeted Nigerian immigrants during that meeting, complaining that once they came to the United States, they would never “go back to their huts.” On January 31, 2020, Trump added Nigeria to a list of countries restricted from immigrating to the United States. The travel restrictions applied to three other African countries: Sudan, Tanzania, and Eritrea. These restrictions followed the initial ban in January 2017, which targeted several other African nations, including Chad, Libya, and Somalia. This was part of the Trump administration’s strategy to target Muslim majority to keep out “radical Islamic terrorists” (Maclean & Dahir, 2020). Some countries added to the immigration ban cannot be classified by religion. For example, Nigeria, home to more than 200 million people, is approximately half Muslim and half Christian (Maclean & Dahir, 2020). Democratic presidential candidate Kamala Harris, a second-generation child of an Indian and African American, echoed the intuition of many people of color, especially immigrants when she stated that “Trump’s travel bans have never been about national security—they’re about discriminating against people of color. They are, without a doubt, rooted in anti-immigrant, white supremacist ideologies” (Maclean & Dahir, 2020). Such implicit and at times explicit antiimmigrant sentiments have stoked seething intergroup conflicts between White majority groups and minoritized groups, as well as intragroup conflicts among people of color. The president’s justification for the travel ban and subsequent comments reinforce negative and misguided stereotypes about Nigeria and the continent of Africa in general. President Trump’s comments belied US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo’s statement that Nigeria was the United States’ second-largest trading partner in Africa and a “strategic partner” against terrorism (Jakes, 2020). In addition, Nigerians are among the most successful and highly educated immigrants in the United States. The Nigerian American population stood at 376,000 in 2015, up from 25,000 people in 1980. According to the Migration Policy Institute, “61% of Nigerian Americans over the age of 25 hold a graduate degree, compared to 32% of the U.S.-born population” (Fosco, 2018). President Trump’s policies and xenophobic rhetoric have seen pushback in entertainment media. Streaming sites like Hulu and Netflix have aired series or documentaries on the plight of immigrants with shows like Cultures Shock (2019), Living Undocumented (2019), and Immigrant

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Nation (2019). Sitcoms like ABC’s long-running Fresh Off the Boat (2015); NBC’s Sunnyside (2019); and TBS’s Chad (2020) are also part of a growing trend of network programs celebrating the immigrant experience in the United States. Though much of the programming gives insight into immigrants’ lived experiences in the United States, most of these shows center on those experiences of the Latinx or Arab Muslim communities. Except for web series like Growing Up Immigrant (2018), African Time (2016), or First Gen (2015), which failed to secure showrunners to air on the major networks, very few offer a perspective of the immigrant experience through the lens of a sub-Saharan African. CBS’s Bob Hearts Abishola (2019) is the first sitcom on a broadcast network centered on an African immigrant’s life. Executive producer and writer, Chuck Lorre who is known for his popular shows like Mike and Molly, The Big Bang Theory, and Two and a Half Men, created Bob Hearts Abishola along with Al Higgins, Eddie Gorodetsky, and Gina Yashere. Yashere, a British comedian and daughter of Nigerian immigrants, was initially hired as a consultant and became much more involved in developing the series. She is credited as a co-creator, producer, writer, and co-star, playing Kemi’s role, Abishola’s best friend. Prior to this role, Yashere appeared regularly on US television, as a guest on Trevor Noah’s, The Daily Show, and hosting her own Netflix special (Blair, 2019). The idea for the show came from Lorre’s desire to showcase the hard work of immigrants in the United States and their many contributions to American culture (Sarmiento, 2019). This sitcom could also be observed as a response to the Trump administration and its efforts to demonize immigrants. “I’m politically suffering” under the Trump presidency,” stated Lorre. “I don't think it’s a political statement to say that the greatness of this country is predicated on immigrants who came here and worked their asses off,” he stated (Grove, 2019). Bob Hearts Abishola aired in September 2019 as a love story about Bob, a white, middle-aged sock salesman from Detroit who unexpectedly falls for Abishola, his cardiac nurse, a Nigerian immigrant of Yoruba ethnicity, while recovering from a heart attack. Undaunted by her lack of initial interest or the vast differences in their backgrounds, Bob sets his sights on developing a meaningful romantic relationship with Abishola’s (CBS, 2020). During a media event, Lorre shared that while vacationing in Africa, Lorre thought a show like Bob Hearts Abishola was “an opportunity not just to explore romantic comedy, but to explore the incredibly

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courageous experience that is moving to another country and starting over again” (Grove, 2019). Making his intent known, the executive producer revealed that his goal in making the show was to “honor people who risk everything to build a new life in a strange place” (Grove, 2019). Likewise, Yashere mentions that Nigerians are motivated by “trying to make better lives for ourselves and for our children. … We’re leaving places where we can’t necessarily sustain ourselves and coming somewhere else” (Blair, 2019, NPR). Lorre and Yashere also discussed Bob Hearts Abishola, during a CBS media event in 2019: The story we wanted to tell is about the greatness of first-generation immigrants, about the focus and discipline, the hard work, rigorous honesty that goes with coming here and grabbing ahold of the American dream. So, the premise of the series is immigrants make America great. (Pierce, 2019)

Stuart Hall’s theoretical framework examining the social, cultural, and economic relations regarding identity construction is key in understanding what is reality for communities and potential for false portrayals on television (Alexander, 2009). Hall’s work examines how culture and identity can be presented to a society that may lean heavily on entertainment media as a source of exposure to minorities when personal are lacking. Stuart Hall (1981) suggested that media messages are encoded during the production stage by producers and writers, and directors through specific language, community, and culture. Hall (1997) also maintained that media construct social knowledge consistent with dominant groups. Gray (1995) opines that race representations in the media are frequently maintained by the terms of the dominant cultural and social order that situates Whites at the top of privilege and power hierarchies. Similarly, media representations of racial minorities often reinforce long-held prejudices about these groups’ racial inferiority in ways that appear natural and “common sense” (Hall, 1981; Kellner, 1995). This chapter examines how African immigrants are socially constructed within entertainment media, specifically on broadcast television and the ways in which Bob Hearts Abishola counters or reinforces hegemonic depictions of sub-Saharan Africans. Moreover, we examine how Bob Hearts Abishola offers insight into immigrant interpersonal, home, and work life. In other words, their daily lived experience. While research on US television news coverage of Africa exists, the conversation centered on Africans’

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representations in entertainment programming is lacking within media research. US entertainment portrays similar simplistic stereotypes as observed in news media. This represents a general lack of priority to create a balanced portrayal of Africa and African countries (Blakely et al., 2019).

Africans on Television In 2019, the University of South California Lear Center conducted a study titled “Africa in the Media,” showing that Africa and Africans are mostly invisible to American television viewers. Combing through 700,000  hours of US television news and entertainment programming and commercials for an entire month, the USC researchers found that Africa and Africans rarely get star billing. On scripted shows, there were just 25 major storylines about Africa during that period (Blakely et al., 2019). Among the open-ended responses in the Africa in the Media (2019) study, the consensus is that “African media coverage is overwhelmingly focused on negative stories such as Boko Haram, corruptions, poverty, electoral crises, migrants and terrorism, while putting far too little emphasis on subjects and stories that provide a counterpoint showing success, diversity, opportunity and vibrancy of Africa—its emerging middle class; technology and innovation; solutions-driven culture; growing economies and democracies; and talent in the areas of the arts and entertainment, technologies, business and government” (p. 4). US entertainment often mirrored some of the same stereotypes observed in the news media. Scripted shows regularly depict Africans or African countries involved in human slavery, smuggling, drugs, or prostitution (Blakely et al., 2019, p. 4). Exploration of Bob Hearts Abishola is important as a televisual artifact because of the pervasiveness of televised content in the global media landscape and the prominent role it plays in American media consumption, especially during the height of anti-­ immigrant sentiment and rhetoric. It is important to interrogate what stories are being told about Africa, the prominence of these depictions, the sentiment of these depictions, and how often African characters are represented. In addition, The Opportunity Agenda published The Power of Pop: Media Analysis of Immigrant Representation in Popular TV Shows (2019). The study examined the representation and dominant storylines associated with immigration, immigrants, and immigrant border communities

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in popular television programs from April 2014 to June 2016. It comprised an analysis of 40 randomly selected sampled shows. Of the 1164 leading and minor characters present in the 40 television episodes examined, only 70 characters were identifiable as immigrant (p. 3). Twenty-two percent of total episodes reviewed included storylines about the life of immigrant characters, often within the genre of comedy. Comedic depiction of immigrant characters also emerged as an important space where nuanced stories of the immigrant experiences are being told and where stereotypes and social anxieties related to specific immigrant groups are being creatively challenged through humor (p. 5). Bob Hearts Abishola was not Lorre’s first attempt and representing the African immigrant experience using comedy. His show Mike and Molly (2010–2016), also starring Billy Gardell, features an African character named Samuel (Babatunde), an immigrant from Senegal who is struggling to achieve the American Dream. The character was a series regular and ten episodes of the show contained references to Africa and featured Samuel. He is played by first-generation Nigerian American, Nyambi Nyambi, who stated that what “interested me about Mike and Molly was the hilarious script and the ideas of playing a West African character that was the smartest guy in the room.” The Africa in the Media (2019) study suggests, “Samuel was likely the most recognizable African character of American TV during Mike and Molly’s six seasons” (p. 24). Method We use critical textual analysis to examine Bob Heart Abishola to lay bare the ideologies operating in and through this show. Textual analysis is a qualitative method of analysis that “focuses on the underlying ideological and cultural assumptions of the text” (Fursich, 2009, p. 240). Conducting this textual analysis required repeated viewings of Bob Hearts Abishola. We watched all 20 episodes of the first season twice. We did not watch the show during its season run, but on streaming platforms, CBS All Access and Amazon Prime Video. During the first viewing of each episode, we took notes on the episode, including setting, character development, plot lines, and interesting dialogue. Subsequent viewing was spent looking specifically for the narrative arch’s involving Bob and Abishola and minor characters, noting when the characters and their storylines appeared. After each episode, we expanded upon these notes through journaling and included my own personal observations, questions, and potential

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connections. We then went through and watched each episode again, making sure to fill out any areas where my journal entries on each episode were lacking. Identity and Parental Negotiations Abishola comes to United States from Nigeria for better opportunities for herself and her son Dele. She lives in a small Detroit apartment with her extended family, Auntie Olu and Uncle Tunde. In addition to her full-­ time job as a nurse, she is also taking classes. Bob runs his family’s successful manufactures therapeutic hosiery company in Detroit with his mother Dottie and his younger twin siblings Christina and Douglas. The show is evenly split between an American and Nigerian perspective. Storylines are mostly set in the Abishola’s home, Bob’s home, the sock factory, and the hospital. Challenges Abishola experiences as an immigrant parenting her son when faced with conflicting Western values influence. In addition, as an African immigrant, she has to negotiate her Blackness in various spaces and people. Conversely, Bob and his family’s perceptions are challenged through their interactions with immigrants.

Negotiating Blackness Despite a growing proportion of the Black racial group in the United States being from Africa, the relationship between Black Americans (i.e., those who have been in the United States for multiple generations) and African immigrants has been described as having friction (p. 1457). Some scholars might argue that Black Americans are essentially Africans several generations removed. Okpalaoka and Dillard (2012), for example, suggests that Black Americans are Africans who arrived to the United States unwillingly while Black immigrants moved to the United States centuries later to attain a better life in a post-industrialized country. Although Black Americans have become familiar with the racialization of their bodies and the values often ascribed to it, Black immigrants must learn the US classification system of race, which can be a culture shock. For many Black immigrants, ethnicity is central to their self-identity, not the color of their skin and has little to do with your worth. Therefore, tensions between Black Americans and Black immigrants often arise because of perceptions of superiority. As early as grade school, children of immigrants are introduced to this intraracial riff motivated by an enduring belief that Africans

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are seen more favorably among White school teachers (Awokoya, 2012; Kiramba et al., 2020). Exasperating the flames, Awokoya’s (2012) work reveals that US media exasperates the flames of tensions between Black Americans and Black immigrants. While Black immigrant parents are motivated to distinguish their children from Black Americans because of the media-induced stereotypes of Black people as lazy and uneducated, Black Americans also possess a poor view of Africans based on media depictions of Black Africans as coming from impoverished and underdeveloped—as opposed to overexploited—countries. This friction is illustrated in episode three, when Abishola has lunch with her best friend, Kemi, a Nigerian cafeteria worker, and Gloria, an African American nurse. When discussing the prospect of remarrying, Kemi revealed a ranking system of suitable matches for Abishola. At the top of the list is an African man of the same tribe, Yoruba. At the bottom of the list is an African American man. Voicing a common sentiment among Black Americans, which exemplifies an underlying resentment, Gloria takes offense stating, “All you Africans think you’re better than us!” Kemi responds, “You don’t make it easy on yourselves. Gangbangers, welfare stamps, the baby mamas” (Lorre et  al., 2019c). Gloria states, “You’re just buying into that racist propaganda you see on TV…. You think white folks see a difference between us? To them, we all look the same” (Lorre et al., 2019c). This scene illustrates the tenuous relationship between African Americans and Africans. The perceptions both groups have of each other are shaped in large part by media representations. Habecker (2016) states, “Western media often depict African countries as corrupt and as an untamed jungle full of savages. Meanwhile, media representations of African Americans focus on drugs, violence, and crime, negatively influencing public perceptions about Black people in general regardless of their origins” (p. 255). Both Gloria and Kemi highlight common stereotypes perpetuated by the media. While the characters agree to disagree, they never address the issue in depth or come to a resolution at that moment. Kemi’s remark suggests that African Americans’ problems are their own fault and due to cultural and social anomalies that could be corrected if African Americans make incisive cultural and social adjustments (Feagin, 2006; Thomas, 2000; Okonofua, 2013). Furthermore, Kemi’s hierarchical list was what Shaw-Taylor and Tuch (2007) defined as role distancing: “A process whereby blacks actively attempt to separate themselves from their punitive stereotyped position in

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a racialized society or to refute their virtual blackness as they define themselves in a social encounter” (p.  29). Though African Americans and Africans share the marker of Blackness, some African immigrants separate themselves from their punitive stereotypes by asserting their differences during interactions (Shaw-Taylor & Tuch, 2007). For most Black immigrants, it is an “unremitting process of defining and negotiating social situation as the Other Black people in America,” state Shaw-Taylor & Tuch (2007, p. 27). Asante et al. (2016) cited Guenther, Pendaz, and Songora Makene stating, “African immigrants come from cultures where Black people are the majority, thus they have no reason to believe they are inferior. However, living in the United States disrupts that sense of self as Black when faced with structural and systemic racism” (p. 369). For African immigrants, the concept of race is complex, befuddling, and often requires the development of new types of knowledge. They often experience confusion over what people objectively are and what they perceive themselves to be (Okonofua, 2013, p. 5). African immigrants have to negotiate their Black identities in the United States to make sense of their shifting subject position as Black from their country of origin to the United States (p. 368). In episode six, Abishola discussed this feeling of confusion with Bob: Abishola: Here in America, I am Black Bob: Aren’t you Black everywhere? Abishola: Yes, but in Nigeria, I never thought about the color of my skin. Abishola: Here, every time I walk out the door, I am continually reminded that I am a Black woman. (Lorre et al., 2019e) The intercultural interactions between these two groups were filled with stereotypical and biased perceptions, Black immigrants have accepted the notion of downward assimilation, or a connection with Black Americans will result in negative outcomes (Portes & Zhou, 1993). This fear is based on stereotypes of Black Americans and their ability to succeed and disregards Blacks’ systematic subordination in the United States (Thelamour, 2017). Media has been critiqued for using the African immigrant group as an upward social comparison with Black American, which has been resented by Black Americans for its racist underlying connotation (Pierre, 2004; Thelamour, 2017). For example, in episode one, Abishola is called to the school where her son, Dele, has been in a fight. In a meeting

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between Abishola, an African American mother, and a white woman administrator, the administrator explains that the fight started when the African American student said some “unfortunate words” to Dele and he lost his temper and retaliated. African American mother:  I don’t care who said what. Her son assaulted my son. Abishola: Now, what was the unfortunate word your son said to my son African American mother: That’s not important. It’s just trash talk. Abishola: Okay. I’ll ask again. What trash did her son say? Administrator: I’m just gonna write it down (hands note to Abishola). Abishola: Ah. “Jungle bitch.” So, your son, who I assume is the same color as you, uses a racist word for my son. How is this possible? African American mother: Still no excuse for him throwing a chair at my Calvin. Abishola: Call me a jungle bitch and see how fast I throw a chair at you. How about this? You teach your son to speak with respect towards my son who is a straight “A” student. And there will be no more fighting. African American mother: That’s not good enough. Her kid should be suspended. Abishola: And what grades does her Calvin get? African American mother: I don’t see how that’s important. Abishola: Well, one of these two boys is going to be a doctor, and I’ll give you a clue. It is not your Calvin. (Lorre et al., 2019a) The interaction between the African American mother and Abishola reinforces the stereotypes imposed on each group. The scene could demonstrate moments of reconciliation and understanding but instead was comedic fodder at the expense of African Americans. While the scene hints at the high expectations Abishola has for Dele to become a doctor, she also approximates grades with behavior and suggests that he shouldn’t be punished since Dele makes higher grades. In addition, there is the

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implication that the African American boy does not have grades that would reach Abishola’s professional expectations. Abishola’s mention of “respect,” grades, and the comparison of the boys is a demonstration of “role modeling” or showing Africa Americans how to do it right (Vickerman, 1999), which serves to alienate African Americans (Thelamour, 2017). Another example of the concept is illustrated in the previously mentioned episode three, featuring Gloria and Kemi discussing the dating hierarchy list. When comparing Africans to African Americans, Gloria states, “You get pulled over by a cop; he’s not going to see your little ranking system. He’s just going to see this (pointing at her hand).” Kemi quips, “We wouldn’t get pulled over. We obey the traffic laws” (Lorre et al., 2019c).

African Immigrant Parenting and the Acculturation of American Values Yoruba tradition stresses the importance of the “quality” of children (Abah, 2013). There is an expectation that children will project and transmit the family’s preferred values and not bring shame and dishonor to the family (Abah, 2013). African immigrant parents are often concerned about losing children to Westernizing influences. African parents often discourage their children from adopting many aspects of the hip-hop culture associated with African Americans which in their view does not sufficiently value education, responsibility, deferred gratification, and reverence for elders and authority figures (Habecker, 2016). The affinity for education and esteemed professions, in particular, may be an effect of the brain drain during Britain’s colonization of Nigeria, where many Nigerian youth were taken to England to study the sciences (Shinn, 2008; Sulaiman, 2012), giving the impression that Western education is a significant key to a good life—one better than their parents. Children are engaged in an identity struggle about whether to embrace their parents’ culture, the American culture, or some hybrid combination of the two (Habecker, 2016). African diaspora parents face the reality that regardless of their efforts to preserve their homeland culture and keep out unwanted American influences, they cannot control what their children are exposed to in the media and at school (Awokoya, 2012; Yenika-Agbaw, 2009; Habecker, 2016).

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Abishola’s 13-year-old son, Dele is studious and obedient. On his bedroom walls are posters of the periodic table, diagrams of the human body and human heart. As previously noted, Abishola expects Dele to become a doctor. In episode one, when he tells Abishola that the track coach is interested in him joining the team, Abishola asks, “Will running fast help you become a doctor?” Dele responds, “No, but it would be fun.” “Study hard, get good grades, become a doctor and take care of me when I am old. That would be fun,” responds Abishola (Lorre et al., 2019a). Most of the conversations with Dele center around his grades and whether he is making A’s. Dele, however, aspires to become a choreographer and entertainer unbeknownst to his mother. When not playing chess, he watches video of his performances. In episode thirteen, Bob perceived that for a child his age, Dele seemed sad. When Dele reveals to Abishola that he has been practicing for two years, her compromise was that he would still study medicine in addition to dance and afterwards, she would decide what was next for his life (Lorre et al., 2020a). While authoritarian parenting appears very effective in the short term since children are given no choice but to comply, this approach also could run the risk of pushing some children to withhold information from parents. Usually, this involves children lying about where they are going. Rather than ask for permission, which the child knows will be denied, he or she goes ahead with the desired action without the parents’ knowledge and covers up activities of which parents would not approve (Habecker, 2016). In Habecker’s (2016) study of African immigrant parenting, African immigrant children with authoritarian parents express concern about their inability to communicate with their parents about key issues (p.  259). In addition, parents’ unwillingness to dialogue sometimes resulted in their children feeling alienated within the home, particularly with regard to navigating parental cultural expectations (Habecker, 2016). African Agency and Empowerment Hall’s theory of representation (1997) requires us to interrogate the significance of symbols, language, and visual text in its relation to maintaining the dominant status quo, presumably whiteness. Postcolonial perspectives, however, further this philosophy by insisting that scholars examine non-Western stories, giving agency to non-Anglos as the owners of their narrative (Shome, 2016). Moreover, a postcolonial framework uncovers the rhetorical remnants of European colonialism whether in texts

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centered on the Global South (Workneh, 2020) or in non-Western cultural productions. In some ways, it returns power to the colonized. Though Bob Hearts Abishola is from the imagination of a white male (Lorre), having Yashere as a co-creator, as well as featuring Nigerian actors such as Folake Olowofoyeku (Abishola), Shola Adewusi (Abishola’s mom), Bayo Akinfemi (Goodwin), and Anthony Okungbowa (Kofo) serve to offer perspectives which counter dominant hegemonic ideals of the West and its relation to Africa. Bob runs the family business (MaxDot) that manufactures therapeutic hosiery. The company is based in Detroit, Michigan, and the socks are manufactured in Malaysia. In episode one, when there is a delay in shipment, Bob gets into an argument over the phone with the Malaysian plant manager. The manager suggests the delay is due to a severe monsoon season, while Bob believes his company has been marginalized for a much larger company, Nike. The manager promises Bob that he would never do such a thing, while he is seen packing Nike branded socks in a box on his desk. Frustrated, Bob says to his family: Bob: First Nike pushed us out of Korea. Now they’re pushing out of Malaysia. We are running out of Asian people to make our socks! Christina: Maybe it’s time we stop exploiting these people. Dottie: We don’t exploit anybody. We contract foreign companies to do that. All we do is turn a blind eye. Douglass: We treat them great. We had suicide nets way before Apple. (Lorre et al., 2019a) In this scene the viewer can observe two perspectives of labor and globalization. In order for Bob company to stay competitive, his socks are made in various Asian countries. The notion of exploitation is brought up by Christina but quickly dismissed by Dottie. While she acknowledges that exploitation occurs, she feels no responsibility for their company part in labor conditions and “turns a blind eye.” Douglass goes as far as to recognize reactive measures of some companies in China install nets to catch the falling bodies instead of the proactive measures of addressing work environments that include long hours, low pay, and dehumanizing treatment of workers. Most of the family’s relationship to foreigners at this point is professional, transactional, and impersonal.

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In episode three, Douglass is suspicious of Bob’s sudden interest in Nigeria and expresses doubt that Bob’s courtship of Abishola will be successful stating, “A bird may love a fish, but where will they build a home together” (Lorre et al., 2019c)? Making the character of Bob profession to be as a business person seemly give him perspective open to diversity. The fact that his company has ties to Asian companies highlights alienation of labor as well as how Bob’s character is exposed to diversity through the necessity of business. Bob has strong intercultural communication skills and it is revealed that he speaks Mandarin, likely to aid in his negotiations with Chinese manufactures. In addition, people of all races and ethnicities, including African immigrants work at the company on the packing floor. He even asks two of his Nigerian immigrant workers, Goodwin and Kofo, to help him learn Yoruba words and phrases. Thus, Goodwin and Kofo, become Bob and the viewer’s guide into Nigerian culture and norms as he pursues Abishola.

Immigrants in the Workplace According to the Census Bureau, there are 161 million workers in the American workforce. Immigrants make up approximately 17 percent of the US labor force, about one in six workers (Kosten, 2018). Based on 2018 US Census data, the Center for Migration Studies (CMS) estimates that 19.8 million immigrants work in “essential critical infrastructure” categories (DHS, 2020). These workers meet the health, infrastructure, manufacturing, service, food, safety, and other needs of all Americans. Immigrants fill gaps in the US economy, improve labor market efficiency, and support the aging US population (Sherman et al., 2019). Immigration has also “brought to the United States an inordinate share of the world’s best talent which has been a windfall in a global economy where heavy advantages accrue to the most innovative companies and countries” (CFR, 2009; Kerwin et al., 2020, p. 1). A significant portion of plotlines in Bob Hearts Abishola involve the immigrants in the workplace. The program not only illustrates immigrants as competent, dependable workers but also highlights the unique challenges immigrants face in the workplace. Bob’s family business is part of a global supply chain and he employs immigrants. However, the family is forced to consider the privilege that is imbued with their racial position. In episode five, Kofo and Goodwin are invited to a meeting to discuss the racial imbalance in the leadership of the

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company. Goodwin mentions that every supervisor on the warehouse floor has been white. To their surprise, Dottie concedes that their father “had certain preferences when it came to management positions.” Dottie states, “It wasn’t just about the blacks. He wasn’t really fond of the Mexicans, either” (Higgins & Yashere, 2019). Christina and Douglas follow up by producing a commercial apologizing for their complicity in discriminatory practices. The commercial features Dottie awkwardly standing between Kofo and Goodwin wearing yellow shirts with the word “SUPERVISOR” on the front. African immigrants are often victims of discrimination because they are seen as coming from an underdeveloped continent. Immigrants from Africa find that their qualifications and experiences may not be accepted in America. For example, those who were medical doctors in pre-migration periods become cab drivers in their post-migration lives. This has significant adverse implications for the individual’s self-esteem, motivation, and physical health. As a result, the public misses out on the contribution of their skill (Ette, 2011). The difficulty of immigrant’s ability to get a job and income was hinted at several times in the program and is actually imbued in the premise of the show. Abishola is initially presented as a married woman with a child living separately from her husband, who is mentioned but is never shown. It is revealed later that Abishola’s husband left her eight years ago because he could not find work as a civil engineer as was his profession in Nigeria. Instead, he worked in a toll booth in the United States. It was that circumstance that led him to leave the family and go back to Nigeria. When searching for employment, immigrants often discover the loss of their identities as professionals in their former lives and subsequently their self-worth. Therefore, the immigrant is forced to take low-skilled and low-paying jobs in order to make a living (Ette, 2011). This lack of symmetry between educational qualification and employment is reinforced again in episode four when Abishola has a disagreement with a doctor in front of a patient. Veteran nurse, Gloria reprimands her stating, “Do you realize there’s like 200,000 Filipino girls waiting to take your job? And they’re all good nurses, too. Some of them were doctors in the Philippines” (Lorre et al., 2019d). While some African immigrants have difficulty finding a job that align with their education, some have found success through education. Abishola is portrayed as a skilled member of the nursing staff. She works long hours and attends further occupational training (Lorre et al., 2019b). For African immigrants, education is an adaptive strategy for those who

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find themselves shut out of various occupations despite their qualifications. In addition, education attainment is also a method of decreasing exposure to, and mitigating the effects of, racism and discrimination. The belief in education as a tool for successful integration in American society is pervasive and is spread through the informal networks utilized by Nigerian immigrants. This has resulted in the need to study in fields that have high demands where race will not be a deciding factor in hiring. Therefore, such fields as nursing, social work, and medicine have seen many Nigerians. This healthcare career path is reflected in another recurring character on the show, Chukwuemeka, a pharmacist at a CVS, a potential suitor of Abishola (Lorre et al., 2019d). Anxiety about job security was a common occurrence among immigrant characters in Bob Hearts Abishola. This overarching feeling of anxiety about job security is expressed in a previously discussed scene in episode five when Bob and his family ask Kofo and Goodwin to discuss the racial inequities in the MaxDot company. Kofo and Goodwin smile and their responses are affirmative in front of the family; however, they turn to each other speaking their native Yoruba language and Kofo states, “It’s a trap; tell them nothing.” Goodwin responds in English stating, “Everything is fine. We love our jobs” (Higgins & Yashere, 2019). Later in the episode, Abishola has fallen on ice on her way to work and is suffering from a bad cold. The senior nurse insists that Abishola take the rest of the day off. Instead, she offers to wear a mask and sit at the central desk. Eventually, she has to be forced home. When Abishola tells her relatives that she is sent home for illness, they respond disappointedly, “And you let them?” (Higgins & Yashere, 2019).

Fear of Immigrants The US Census Bureau (2012) projects that the national population of non-white racial groups will exceed that of Whites before the middle of this century. Major et al. (2018) suggest, “Many White Americans in the U.S. view race relations as a ‘zero-sum,’ in which status gains for minorities means a status loss for Whites and less bias against minorities means more bias against Whites” (p. 932). Changing demographics of America contribute to increasing perceived threats to White’s group’s status (Major et al., 2018). Social and psychological theories of identity and intergroup relations predict that this demographic shift is like threatening to White Americans. For example, integrated threat theory (Stephan & Stephan,

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2000) predicts that increasing diversity poses a threat to White Americans, as an increase in minorities represents a real threat to White Americans’ resources as well as a symbolic threat to White American values. Also, motivated social cognition theory (Jost et al., 2003) predicts that increasing ethnic diversity is apt to be frightening and confusing to Whites’ uncertainty and fear (e.g., Bonanno & Jost, 2006; Major et al., 2018). In the first six episodes, there is little interaction between Abishola and Bob’s family. The major shift in the characters’ relationship occurs when Dottie has a stroke and Bob employs Abishola as her caretaker in episode seven. This narrative shift allows more interaction between Bob’s and Abishola’s families. During Dorothy’s recuperation, she is depressed and her attitude and behavior is brusque with her family. Abishola tries to feed her, but Dorothy throws the utensil on the floor stating: Dottie: “Go fetch”! Abishola: Mrs. Wheeler I understand that this is hard for you, but there is no reason for you to make it hard for me. Dottie: You don’t tell me what’s what, I tell you! Abishola: I don’t think so. Dottie: You don’t think so! You need to know your place! Abishola: Mrs. Wheeler, I took this job to help your son and to help you. If you’d rather have somebody else, that fine. All you have to do is say so. Dottie: I know about you. You people are all the same. You worm your way into our lives and take everything we worked for. Abishola: You are wrong. I do not want anything from you. (Lorre et al., 2019f) Bob, extremely embarrassed by his mother’s behavior, takes his mother to Abishola’s home to apologize. Alone with Abishola, Dorothy admits, “I’m scared.” Abishola responds, “I understand. It’s hard losing your independence” (Lorre et al., 2019f). The show further illustrates this dilemma of African immigrants, many of who are highly educated but, because of the need to maintain their families in America and at the home front, are often contented to doing jobs that are far below their levels of education (Obiakor & Afoláyan, 2007). By the end of the season, we’ve witnessed a narrative arc that shifts that change white characters’ perception of the immigrants. This is most clearly observed in a scene at the sock factory in episode fourteen. Excited

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by her physical therapy progress, Dottie insists she is ready to return to work at the company-much to Bob, Douglass, and Christina’s dismay. When the siblings walk into her office, Dottie is sitting at a desk and flanked by Abishola, Goodwin, and Kofo. Dottie then asks Bob to hand over financial documents to Goodwin. When Bob asks, “Why?”, it is revealed that Goodwin graduated sum cum laude with a degree in economics from the University of Lagos. Dorothy also announces that she made Abishola her executive assistant (Lorre et al., 2020b). Later, Kofo is promoted when he begins working on a marketing project with Christina. Contrary to popular assertions, the United States has benefited tremendously from the wave of African immigrants entering it shores (Obiakor & Grant, 2002). Yet there is an unfounded fear of excessive immigration of Africans to the United States—this fear persists even though Africans are very productive in all their lines of duty (Obiakor & Afoláyan, 2007). Many immigrants face discrimination, hostility, and prejudice (Homola & Tavits, 2017). Contact theory (Allport, 1954) predicts that contact with out-group members reduces prejudice toward them. The theory is explained as follows: through contact, individuals are exposed to new information about the out-group. Such new information can improve the understanding of the out-group’s concerns and interests, help develop affective ties that reduce feelings of threat toward the out-group member, disprove negative stereotypes, and consequently lead to more positive views of the out-group. There is strong support for the notion that intergroup contact reduces intergroup prejudice across a broad range of different types of out-group and contact settings (Homola & Tavits, 2017).

Conclusion Bob Hearts Abishola attempts to give voice to immigrants’ day-to-day life experience in the United States with African immigrants at its center. Through the genre of situational comedy, the series uses intragroup conflict and the outcomes of postcolonialism as its punch lines, revealing the complexities of an African immigrant experience. It is one whereby Africans must both adopt and contest their racial assignment and its limitations. The immigration experience for Africans to the United States is one whereby the formerly colonized negotiate the contentment of their displacement in contrast to the familial comfort of an ancestral land destabilized by Western colonial masters. With very few images of African immigrants on television or practically no narratives which amplify

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sub-­Saharan African voices on major cable or broadcasting networks, the show works to present the present-day realities, struggles, strength, pride, and joy of the African immigrant. Though met with some resistance and poor reviews, the series has had meaningful success among American and Nigerian viewers and was renewed for a second season (Berman, 2019). Given the near invisibility of sub-Saharan Africans in US media, we hope future scholarship can explore questions of representation, agency, and power as well as interrogate the fallibility of racial constructs as exemplified by the lived experiences of Black immigrants and Black Africans in particular.

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PART II

Content Creation: Industry Concerns and Constraints

CHAPTER 7

Ambivalence and Contradiction in Digital Distribution: How Corporate Branding and Marketing Dilute the Lived Experiences in Ramy Peter Arne Johnson

With the advent of streaming platforms like Netflix, Amazon Prime Video, and Hulu, first- and second-generation Americans have seemingly had the opportunity to tell their stories without the type of interference that media industries have traditionally exerted on creative workers, particularly those from marginalized communities. On the face of it, these agnostic platforms—with their direct-to-consumer business models and niche programming—do not need to flatten cultural identities to create broad appeal or placate advertisers. Indeed, the Hulu Original comedy Ramy (2019), co-created by comedian and writer Ramy Youssef, seemingly departed from the tired representations of both Arabs and Muslims that plagued television for decades, as the series follows 20-something Ramy

P. A. Johnson (*) The University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_7

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Hassan in his daily negotiation of faith, ancestral identity, and living in an increasingly mediatized society. While shows like Ramy may signal that digital distribution has provided more equitable representation and access for marginalized groups, the industry rhetoric surrounding Ramy’s first season tells a different story. Several marketing factors—streaming television’s desire to “elevate” itself to “Quality TV” status, Hulu and Disney’s conflicting branding strategies, and Hulu’s unique business model—all ambivalently distanced Ramy from its narrative grounding in cultural hybridity. Further, Hulu’s decision to distribute Ramy represented both a democratization of content, in that the platform gave a marginalized immigrant community a voice, and a programming strategy that ultimately commodified cultural identity to create the appearance of a progressive brand. To investigate Hulu’s branding logic, this chapter relies on the term “paratexts.” These are the tangential proliferations of a television series (e.g., posters, commercials, reviews) that in and of themselves create meaning in popular culture, even for those who have not seen the main text (i.e., the television series) (Gray, 2010). Specifically, this case study of Ramy’s first season considers how media industry trade press (i.e., Deadline, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter), investor documents, and Hulu’s interface all highlight carefully constructed corporate narratives that reflect Hollywood’s ongoing attempt to placate corporate interests during times of uncertainty and digital convergence (Caldwell, 2006). In other words, these paratexts, particularly the trade press, are indeed marketing for the industry and should be approached with skepticism. At the same time, they nonetheless “provide a sense of the dominant discourses within the media industries” (Perren, 2015, p. 228). In this case, marketing paratexts demonstrate the contradiction between the cultural specificity of Ramy’s text and the malleable identity formations developed by the press and executive rhetoric. When discussing Ramy’s faith-based experiences, this chapter also evokes the term “lived religion” (Winston, 2009, p. 5), which refers to how characters make sense of religious codes, dogmas, and texts and integrate them into their everyday lives. To accommodate Ramy’s intersectional identity, this chapter broadens “lived religion” by considering his lived cultural experiences. In other words, Ramy’s Muslim and Egyptian-American identities are inseparable and together inform his overall cultural expression. Indeed, Ramy’s narrative reflects a specific American experience: that of a second-generation Egyptian Muslim American in post-9/11 New Jersey.

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The series encourages its audience to earnestly consider how the entire Hassan family negotiates these cultural threads in everyday life, all without forgoing their heritage. Although mainstream studies and national polls (Pew Research Center, 2017; Arab American Institute, n.d.) fail to provide a precise accounting of the Arab Muslim community in the United States, the Arab and Muslim communities represent a multiplicity of races and ancestral nationalities. This lack of nuance within popular culture is surprising because the Muslim population is one of the fastest-growing groups in the United States, of which over 75% are first- or second-­ generation immigrants (Pew Research Center, 2017). A 2017 Pew Research Center study also found that only 25% of foreign-born Muslims come from Arab nations—a broad geographic area of 22 countries in the Middle East and North Africa (Arab American Institute, n.d.). Although much of popular culture foregrounds Arab Americans as the Muslim identity, Muslims represent a diverse cross-section of ethnicities, including Black and Asian communities. Therefore, Ramy’s lived cultural experience as an Egyptian Muslim American is just one of many possible second-gen experiences in America and is hardly representative of all Muslims, all Arabs, or even all Arab Muslims.

Contextualizing Ramy Muslim and Arab Representations in Film and Television Although Muslim, Arab, and Muslim Arab protagonists were absent from most audiovisual content in the twentieth century, US film and television have a long history of presenting cliché Arab “stock” characters, dating back to swashbuckling action-adventure films from the classical Hollywood era and later to Hollywood blockbusters like Steven Spielberg’s Indiana Jones series. Historically, female Arab characters were represented as exotic and overly sexualized, while Arab men were violent and inhuman savages (Shaheen, 2009). Amir Hussain (2009) documents how this stereotype only intensified after the Cold War when Arabs became the primary villains in American media, particularly in cartoons. Although there was at least one reoccurring Christian Arab character in the pre-cable era (i.e., Cpl. Clinger in M*A*S*H* [CBS, 1972–1983]), the few Muslim characters on network television were featured in roles that highlighted their “oddness” or otherness (e.g., Venus Flytrap in WKRP in Cincinnati [CBS, 1978–1982] or Kunta Kinte in Roots [ABC, 1977]).

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Arab and Muslim characters have been featured more prominently in the twenty-first century but rarely in a positive light. In the aftermath of September 11, the news media—and subsequently, narrative television— began explicitly associating Arab Muslims with terrorism. As a result, Arab Muslims were no longer just as far-off villains in exotic action-adventure films and cartoons; they were presented as material threats to the American homeland. These early post-9/11 representations included Sayid on Lost (ABC, 2004–2010) and the many Arab antagonists on 24 (Fox, 2001–2010), all of whom were either terrorists or othered due to their violent nature. Hussain argues that these representations were no different on premium channels like HBO and Showtime, even though they seemingly had more latitude in terms of content and character development. Instead, these channels still presented Muslims as terrorists or, at the very least, as violent. While Showtime’s post-9/11 spy drama Sleeper Cell (2005–2006) featured a Muslim protagonist and included a cast of multiethnic Muslim characters, perhaps celebrating the multiplicity of intersectional Muslim identities in America, the series still suggested that “any Muslim could be a terrorist” (Hussain, 2009, p.  159) and all Muslims should be approached with caution. The popular series Homeland (Showtime, 2011–2020) only intensified this discourse, as it explicitly associated Muslim prayer and neighborhood mosques with terrorism. Due to these highly entrenched post-9/11 perceptions of Muslims, particularly Muslim immigrants, streaming television has continued these same problematic traditions, though in a slightly different way. For example, the first seven minutes of Ramy’s “first cut” initially took place inside the Hassans’ community mosque. However, when producers screened the pilot for a test audience, viewers immediately assumed Ramy was “a show about terrorists” (Mendoza, 2019). To counter this assumption, producers added a scene before Ramy enters the mosque, where his mother chides him for not having a girlfriend, to indicate the themes of the series to the audience more clearly. This anecdote reflects just how easily audiences associated something as banal as a community mosque with scheming and anti-American activity. The adjustments made to the pilot also reflect just how critical upscale audiences continue to be for premium and streaming television. In other words, if shows like Ramy were truly designed to target the minority groups represented therein, they would not need to revise scenes like the one found in Ramy’s pilot, which was modified to make the program more legible to a wider audience. Although problematic, the audience’s first reactions and the historical

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representations of Arab Muslims reflect just how divergent Ramy was. Indeed, it avoided the stereotypes traditionally perpetuated by premium channels and did not shy away from earnest representations of prayer, ritual, and the complexity of intersectional immigrant identities. Television Industry Discourse Around Religion Television industry discourses around religion also reflect contemporary media’s fear of otherness and any intersectional identity outside normative Whiteness. For most of broadcast television’s history, industry executives and creative personnel avoided religious characters and overt representations of religious practices. From the mid-1950s to the 1980s, producers instead relied on religious “shorthand” (Newcomb, 1990, p.  33) that included vaguely Christian characters and two-dimensional stereotypes designed to avoid offending mass audiences (and advertisers). However, when the three dominant television networks—CBS, NBC, and ABC— started to face competition from cable, satellite, and emerging broadcast networks in the 1980s and 1990s, they took a different approach to religious programming. In particular, CBS explicitly started to target the so-­ called heartland audience, which held “traditional values” like “home, the nuclear family, and belief in God” (Johnson, 2000, p. 40). CBS programs like Touched by an Angel (1994–2002) provided these conservative, rural audiences with earnest representations of Christianity and its values, even while it remained denominationally vague. Series like 7th Heaven (WB, 1996–2007) similarly represented earnest Christian believers, but this time made explicit reference to institutional Christianity. Eventually, however, the competition for audience attention intensified, and the television landscape further fragmented. As a result, networks shifted their attention away from broad middle-class audiences and toward imagined “Quality” audiences who were “younger, more urban, [and] more social liberal” (Newman & Levine, 2012, p. 22). Accordingly, these viewers were comfortable with intersectional character representations in certain contexts but not with overt depictions of faith, God, or scripture. In the ensuing years, the television industry—executives and creatives alike—distanced their work from shows like 7th Heaven and Touched by an Angel to cater to these prestige viewers. This aversion to preachiness profoundly affected televisual representations of religion and cultural identity in the convergence era. For Charlotte Howell (2020, p. 98), “from 2003 to 2016 we saw … a variety of strategies … employed by industry

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practitioners to disavow, minimize, abstract, and displace religion. These strategies of containment take place within the context of writers’ rooms and executive offices and function to make religion ideologically safe to work with in the television industry.” While twenty-first-century television has certainly represented the lived experiences of non-White Christians (e.g., Greenleaf [OWN, 2016–2020], Jane the Virgin [The CW, 2014–2019]) and non-Christian faiths (e.g., Judaism in Transparent [Amazon, 2014–2019]), religions like Islam are still discursively tied to specific immigrant identities that are rarely portrayed positively. With the advent of digital distribution, executives still maintain this practice of othering Muslim characters not only to reach upscale quality audiences but also to legitimize their platforms in the increasingly competitive TV marketplace. For faith-based programs like Ramy, the television industry still generally avoids any rhetoric that audiences could perceive as religious or middlebrow.

Cultural Hybridity in Ramy: Regionality, Family, and Ritual While executives and marketers certainly dilute cultural hybridity to commodify and market their products, Ramy’s creative team did not textually abstract cultural identity to reach a broader audience—or even a more general Muslim audience. The series not only identifies Ramy as Egyptian American, instead of just vaguely Arab American, but it also presents his organic lived experience growing up in New Jersey after 9/11. In season one’s “Strawberries,” the narrative flashes back to Ramy’s teenage experiences immediately after September 11. With minimal success, Ramy and his parents try to convince their community that they are not terrorists. Though the series is careful not to promote outright assimilation, Ramy’s father at one point tactically places an American flag on their front porch to signal their American allegiance and placate their xenophobic neighborhood. Ramy later struggles to convince his middle school friends that his ancestors were not even from the same country as the 9/11 perpetrators. Amid all of this cultural othering, Ramy also deals with the conventional awkward experiences associated with a “coming of age” narrative. For example, Ramy’s friends conflate his lying about “being able to masturbate” with him possibly lying about being a terrorist. (In one particularly imaginative scene, his friends hand him a leaf on their walk to school,

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saying “jerk off on this leaf” to “show us you’re not a terrorist.”) Ramy’s narrative arc in this episode is about more than just a Muslim finding it difficult to navigate his community after 9/11. By foregrounding the effect of 9/11 on Arab American life, the series presents lived experiences that could easily be different for Black or Asian Muslim Americans. Youssef himself admitted in an interview, “I think that Arab Muslims who watch this show feel very seen. But then Muslims who are black, which is most of the Muslims in America, Muslims who are any of the various groups, they might only relate to certain things” (Blyth, 2019). Youssef rejected the notion that his show represents all Muslims. Instead, it presents the experience of one admittedly imperfect Egyptian Muslim American in North Jersey who deals with pressure from both his White middle school friends and his first-generation parents. Some aspects of Ramy’s faith may be legible to all Muslims, but the series does not flatten his intersectional identity to reach a broader base of Muslim Americans, nor does it textually pander to upscale audiences who may not readily understand the nuances of the Muslim immigrant community in America. At the same time, these representations fit neatly within Hulu’s desired brand image as a haven for underrepresented creatives and their stories— something that likely resonated with Hulu’s more “socially liberal” viewers. Ramy’s narrative also references rituals and Islamic doctrine in a way that does not associate the religion with terrorism or violence. For example, the pilot episode “Between the Toes” depicts Ramy as he ritualistically enters his mosque, takes off his shoes, and washes his hands, feet, mouth, and ears before prayer. Although producers edited the pilot to counteract audience assumptions, this depiction of wudu nonetheless reflects how Ramy presents religious rituals as banal, rather than “odd” or plot points that service a narrative about violence or terrorism. Moreover, the show does not try to make Ramy’s practices secular or vaguely “spiritual,” as they are grounded in a legitimate belief in God. Ramy also frequently faces negotiations between religious obligations and his social life. For example, in the pilot, Ramy explains to his girlfriend that he does not drink alcohol because it is against Islamic dietary law. Articulating his negotiation of these conflicting cultural identities, Ramy admits that he is simultaneously willing to buy shots for his friends at the bar while not drinking alcohol at all. Ramy certainly maintains relationships with those outside his family and mosque, but he does not forsake his faith in the process. In addition to balancing his religious and millennial obligations, Ramy speaks and

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dresses like any other millennial, often swearing and donning a backward hat and baggy clothes. Considering these negotiations, the series is not trying to be controversial or political or pander to a mainstream audience; it presents a real, organic perspective. Ramy’s relationship with his family similarly departs from past shorthand and disrupts the prototypical dynamic between first-generation parents and second-generation children. Seeking an answer to the existential angst that comes with being an unemployed and single millennial, Ramy frequently finds himself going to the mosque and reading the Quran in search of spiritual fulfillment. He also often even asks his parents and sister to join him at the mosque; however, after a long day of work, they prefer eating dinner in front of the TV and chatting about popular culture. At one point, Ramy’s father even concludes, “The [television] trailers are good this year, huh? Good trailers, good shows, good Ramadan.” Through these lived-in experiences, the series departs from past representations that caricatured Muslims as violent operatives (Hussain, 2009) or staunch religious conservatives outside American culture. This parent-child dynamic also eschews oversimplified representations of older Muslims who push conservativism onto their second-generation children who then resist their heritage and want to assimilate into American culture. Discussing his TV family in an interview, Youssef summarized, “they’re messy, they’re ignorant, they’re loving, they’re a little racist, they’re … you know— they’re everything everyone in America is” (Sperling, 2019). Ramy acknowledges the negotiations experienced by immigrant families in America but avoids diluting the distinct identity of this “TV family” to fit the expectations of Quality audiences. However, as the marketing and industry discourse around the show suggest, narrative threads about cultural hybridity and identity can be manipulated to meet various economic imperatives.

How Industry Imperatives Obscure Religion and Cultural Hybridity in Ramy Television Legitimation In the era of Peak TV, with its ever-increasing amount of content to choose from, so-called prestige viewers are at the root of how writers and producers develop character identities. In this era, producers aim to “legitimize”

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their content and raise it to “prestige TV.” Indeed, the marketing around Ramy’s first season tried to “elevate” the series by positioning Ramy Youssef (the actor-comedian) as its sole authorial voice. For Michael Z. Newman and Elana Levine (2012), this strategy is part of a broader discursive trend in the television industry, where producers align their content with cinema and other already “legitimized” arts to court valuable upscale audiences. Newman and Levine find that this is an attempt to position convergence-era television “as an improvement on the television we knew before” (15). Although television is and always has been a collaborative medium, by positioning the “showrunner as the auteur,” producers can make “some television conspicuously authored” and align their series “with cinema, literature, painting, and other forms of serious, highly respected culture” (57). Howell (2020, p.  200) adds that series about religion can protect themselves from backlash and alienating audiences by foregrounding their show’s “quality auteurist mode,” thereby “folding the approach to religion into [a showrunner’s] ‘brave’ artistic vision.” In other words, shows like Ramy can avoid controversy by foregrounding their lead actor or writer as the sole auteur. This notion that Youssef was the series auteur framed Ramy as a “vision” from a celebrated artist, seemingly aligning it with other auteur-driven series like Vince Gilligan’s Breaking Bad (AMC, 2008–2013) or David Chase’s The Sopranos (HBO, 1999–2007). Throughout the show’s first season, the trade press foregrounded Youssef, his personal experiences, and how those experiences shaped the series but failed to mention that he was not even the showrunner of the series (Sperling, 2019; Blyth, 2019; Gross, 2019). Even when interviewers discussed Youssef’s earnest lived experiences, they nonetheless framed it as his “semi-autobiographical story” (Gross, 2019), which elided that other writers, directors, and below-the-line personnel shaped the series. This framing was not accidental; Ramy’s distributors wanted to legitimize the series by highlighting Youssef’s vision and ignoring television’s collaborative nature. Further, it overlooked the fact that several episodes prominently featured other characters, including Ramy’s mother and sister, who had much different experiences as female Arab immigrants. Although these auteurist discourses provided the show with more cultural cache, they obscured the banality of Ramy’s faith and the textured identities within the Arab Muslim community. In addition to the “showrunner as the auteur” legitimation strategy, Ramy’s marketing also aligned the series with art cinema distribution.

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Again, for Newman and Levine (2012, p.  5), “movies have long been elevated culturally above television, especially since the post-war years of art cinema.” Accordingly, television series like Ramy can “elevate” themselves above mainstream television by aligning their distribution with cinema. Ramy did this by associating itself with the production house A24, which is known for its arthouse style and “backing edgy, auteur-driven projects” (Lang, 2018). Effectively, A24 provided Ramy with this “arthouse style” in the popular imagination. Ramy’s “premiere” at the 2019 SXSW Film Festival also associated it with cinematic exhibition, while playing into the convergence-era platitude that every television episode is its own short film (SXSW, n.d.). By associating itself with A24, Ramy discursively became a “Quality” series about a marginalized community. It, therefore, ascertained the type of cultural cache that Quality audiences sought out. Despite Hulu’s progressive corporate image, this branding was just another form of “othering” that placed a marginalized identity into a box that prestige viewers were comfortable with. As an emergent digital platform, Hulu also wanted to legitimize itself and attract upscale audiences. As a result, Hulu executives positioned Ramy as an “important” show that reflected a particular zeitgeist in American intellectual culture. Shortly before the launch of Ramy, the Head of Hulu Originals, Craig Erwich, betrayed the platform’s desire to legitimate itself when he stated, “one of the ways I really know we’ve hit it is when I see our shows being written about not in the entertainment section but in the style or politics sections or in the New Yorker. … These shows all go toward building up Hulu as a brand that people have to have in their lives” (Adalian, 2019). Put another way, Hulu wanted to turn its content into cultural cornerstones that upscale audiences read about in intellectual publications. In Ramy’s case, it premiered shortly after President Donald Trump’s so-called Muslim Ban, which prohibited citizens from several Muslim countries from entering the United States. Effectively, Hulu was delivering its promise to keep its brand relevant and court readers of The New Yorker’s politics section. However, despite Hulu’s programming strategy, Ramy is far more than just a political statement about xenophobia or the Trump administration; the series depicts earnest, organic experiences and everyday negotiations of faith and culture. While the series certainly does not avoid politics or why the ban was problematic, Ramy himself admits in the first season, “I know it was terrible, but the day the Muslim ban happened I had a really good day.”

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Corporate Branding During Ramy’s first season, Hulu also manufactured a highly constructed corporate narrative that distanced the show from the faith-based, second-­ generation experiences central to the first season. Two aspects of Hulu’s corporate branding—its “coming-of-age” genre categorization and its channel differentiation strategy—obscured the intersectionality at the heart of Ramy. Regarding the former strategy, Hulu wanted viewers to perceive its Original comedies as one discrete unit in order to develop a coherent brand identity in the increasingly fragmented streaming environment. Accordingly, some of Ramy’s more culturally and religiously specific elements were paratextually diluted to match the streamer’s desire for brand unity. Specifically, marketing and trade publications positioned Ramy alongside other Hulu Original comedies Pen15 (2019–) and Shrill (2019–), both of which were “freshman comedies” centered on coming-­ of-­age millennial narratives (Pedersen, 2019). By grouping these shows, viewers could more easily conceptualize Ramy in relation to Hulu’s broader programming slate and, by extension, to other streamers. Hulu’s desire to batch these three comedies reflected how it may have needed to broaden—and in many ways, dilute—Ramy’s cultural specificity to meet the demands of genre categorization. Due to this categorization, the trade press used abstract language when discussing religion in Ramy. For example, they defaulted to terms like “spiritual journey” to describe the show’s premise (Pedersen, 2019; Petski, 2019; Thorne, 2019). One article even excluded Islam altogether and instead described the show as a “spiritual journey in [a] politically-divided New Jersey neighborhood” (Thorne, 2019). By leveraging areligious language like “spirituality” and omitting Islam, Hulu and its allies in the press made the series more palatable for Quality audiences. Even though Islam is central to Ramy’s identity as a second-generation American, the evocation of “spiritual journey” is logical because it is not a far cry from the coming-of-age narratives in both Shrill and Pen15. The long-term corporate strategies of Hulu and its parent company Disney also diluted Ramy’s cultural specificity in the popular imagination. Similar to how cable channels have historically differentiated similar content to create the illusion of choice, Hulu strategically categorized its content to create the illusion of endless choice and distinguish similar programs under common ownership from one another. Summarizing this phenomenon, Michael Wayne (2018, pp. 727–729) argues that while the “brand

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identities of [streaming services] are not tailored to specific audience demographics, … media conglomerates attempt to recreate the mass audience by using different subsidiaries to appeal to a variety of audiences.” As platforms like Hulu and Netflix are not discrete “channels” like HBO or MTV, they brand themselves more like cable operators, who differentiate among the many “channels” within their services to achieve four-­ quadrant appeal. Convergence and consolidation have made this process of differentiation easier, as corporations can now more easily control their branding in an oligopolistic market because they own more content. Discussing Time Warner and its subsidiaries, Deborah Jaramillo (2002) points out that conglomerates create the appearance of competition between two subsidiary channels to generate more viewers for both. Per Fig. 7.1, Hulu uses this same logic in its interface by segmenting content into niche categories, such as Networks, Hulu Originals, and FX on Hulu. Following the logic presented by Jaramillo and Wayne, Disney separated Hulu Original comedies from other channels to distinguish them from non-Hulu comedies on the platform, particularly the “edgy” comedies from FX and broad network comedies from ABC. Effectively, Hulu pitted its content

Fig. 7.1  Hulu’s browse interface

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against other content from the Disney umbrella (i.e., ABC, The Disney Channel, FX) to create the appearance of competition and difference. Accordingly, Ramy’s faith-based and second-gen identity markers were minimized because they did not “fit in” with the other coming-of-age Hulu comedies. If Hulu were to amplify the Muslim Arab identities in Ramy’s marketing, for example, it might have inadvertently associated the show with past “edgy” dramas centered on terrorism or espionage. As a result of this corporate logic, Hulu diluted the cultural specificity of Ramy. Ramy also fit neatly in with the brand image of all Hulu Originals. In the second half of the 2010s, Hulu’s programming strategy aimed to be more inclusive of marginalized voices—at least more so than its parent company’s streamer Disney+. For example, Hulu’s teen drama series Love, Victor (2020–), which centers on a high school student’s “journey of self-­ discovery, facing challenges at home, adjusting to a new city, and struggling with his sexual orientation” (Andreeva, 2020), was initially slated to premiere on the family-friendly Disney+. However, Disney suddenly moved the series to Hulu shortly before its series premiere. Industry press suggested that Disney moved the series because its “adult content,” which included “drinking” and “marital issues,” would not have been appropriate for family viewers. However, the show was created specifically for Disney+, so Disney executives would have theoretically wielded substantive input on creative decisions, including the show’s maturity level. Therefore, the shift of Love, Victor was, at least in part, due to its alignment with Hulu’s brand image as a comparatively more risqué platform and as a platform that amplified marginalized voices, including those of a LGBTQ+ teen and a second-generation Muslim American. The contradictory target audiences and ambivalent branding strategies between Hulu and Disney also suggest that Ramy was subject to many economic imperatives that may have required a level of ambiguity in Ramy’s marketing. Discussing Hulu’s audiences, executive Craig Erwich stated in late 2019, “Generation and demographic are usually the last things that enter into our conversations around development and programming” (Adalian, 2019). However, former Disney CEO Robert Iger later claimed in an early 2020 earnings call that the goal of consolidating Hulu (and FX) was “to expand our reach to include those viewers who are not linear pay TV subscribers—and that includes many of Hulu’s young and highly-engaged streaming audience” (The Walt Disney Company, 2020, p. 6). Here, Disney reassured nervous Wall Street analysts that Hulu was a smart investment and achieved an essential digital-era objective: lure

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non-cable cord-cutters back into the Disney universe. However, Hulu executives like Erwich maintained that their content was “quality-driven” (not data or demographic driven), obviously contradicting Disney’s position. The paradoxical business strategies within a single organization reflect the ambivalent discursive patterns that have emerged in the era of digital distribution, when companies like Disney appeal to multiple stakeholders simultaneously, including Wall Street, streaming audiences, subsidiaries, and cross-industry Disney consumers. Due to this web of interests, Disney’s branding paratexts needs to remain malleable and non-­ specific, so various stakeholders can shape series like Ramy however they want to achieve a particular business purpose. Due to this political economy, it is unsurprising that intersectional character identities like those found in Ramy did not fit into one-dimensional marketing and distribution rhetoric. Ultimately, Ramy’s branding was subject to many non-­ textual considerations, as Disney consistently placed profits and Wall Street placation above authenticity and lived experiences. Advertising and Licensing Hulu’s reliance on advertising also contributed to its paratextual abstraction of faith and identity. Catherine Johnson (2012) has pointed out that Hulu still ultimately sells audience attention to advertisers, not merely subscriptions to users; this suggests that Ramy may have needed to adhere to the legacy industry logic that eschewed any programming that could scare off advertisers. Describing the historical effect of advertising on content decisions, Howell (2020, p. 33) maintains that ad-supported television has “generally sought to appeal to the most people it could and minimize the potential for viewers, local affiliates, and advertisers to be offended by network television programming.” Similar to network television, Hulu’s advertising model avoids content that could harm its brand or scare off advertisers. Erwich revealed the importance of advertising on Hulu when he said, “if there are advertisers who want to opt-out of more mature content, we can facilitate that. But quite frankly, most advertisers want to be associated with a platform that is producing originals at that quality that we are, and therefore it’s really not much of an issue” (Adalian, 2019). Although Erwich maintained that advertising did not influence Hulu’s programming decisions, Hulu still theoretically allowed advertisers to pull their support from shows deemed offensive, which did not preclude the possibility they could find a particular show controversial and

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remove their advertising support. On the other hand, if advertisers saw a series like Ramy as Quality and courting upscale audiences, Hulu could attract more advertisers and bring in more commercial revenue. As a result, Hulu needs to strike a delicate balance between the niche content that Quality audiences demand and the “safe” content that advertisers mandate. Therefore, Hulu’s ability to control the narrative through marketing and other discursive constructions was necessary to appeal to these divergent stakeholders. Further, Hulu’s desire to appease skittish advertisers provided a compelling reason to oversimplify Ramy’s narrative in its paratexts, even while the text and its creators may have had more latitude in content production. Hulu’s domestic licensing model, which differs from that of other streamers like Netflix and Amazon, provided another reason to keep the branding of individual shows vague. Unlike other streamers, producers of Hulu Originals are financially incentivized to license their content to other platforms (Sanson & Steirer, 2019, p. 1216). In other words, it was in the best financial interest of Ramy’s producers to identify where else it could be purchased in North America. As of early 2020, Ramy was available for purchase on platforms like Amazon Prime Video, Google Play, and Apple TV for $1.99/episode (MSN, n.d.). Accordingly, Ramy’s underlying intellectual property owners may have kept the show’s brand somewhat abstract and avoided any overly concrete marketing language to placate these secondary distributors, who may have had trouble selling a program with too much cultural baggage. Therefore, Hulu and the show’s producers were careful not to alienate users on other potential platforms, both internationally and domestically. Hulu’s international licensing model resulted in a similar situation. As Hulu is solely a US service, the producers behind Hulu Originals license their series internationally on a per-region basis. Due to the multiplicity of distributors and stakeholders involved, however, this licensing model resulted in conflicting marketing language around Ramy. For example, after acquiring the rights to several European territories, a Starz international distribution executive stated, “Ramy is exactly the kind of premium, noisy content that we are looking to deliver to the global StarzPlay audience” (Ritman, 2019). Partly thanks to Hulu’s vague marketing in the United States, Starz Play was able to capitalize on Ramy’s malleable brand identity to fit a specific geographic branding strategy. The executive called the show “noisy,” thereby suggesting that it was an edgy program—perhaps because it included Muslim characters and was, by extension,

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somehow controversial. An international audience also would have had little cultural context regarding the Muslim Arab immigrant experience in America, so the distributors, in this case, may have fallen back on the familiar television shorthand that associated Muslims with violence to more easily brand the series for a global audience. Due to these international licensing opportunities, Ramy’s brand remained malleable for international distributors, who could pull different Quality levers to achieve divergent marketing objectives. However, these economic factors once again overlooked Ramy’s uniquely American immigrant story in the process.

Conclusion Despite its specificity in depicting family, prayer, and first- and second-­ generation experiences, several capitalist drives obscured Ramy’s complex narrative threads: attempts to legitimize streaming television, Hulu and Disney’s ambivalent branding strategies, and Hulu’s revenue model. While the industry has suggested that the autonomy provided by streaming platforms has democratized television and that advertising control is not a concern, the television industry nonetheless remains a neoliberal enterprise that relies on advertising and, unsurprisingly, places branding above marginalized voices in order to cut through the clutter. These findings suggest that the profit drive inherent in capitalism and the desire to earnestly represent marginalized identities are contradictory motivations— unless such identities can be commodified or appropriately branded. Although industry rhetoric certainly repressed the earnest expression found in Ramy, all this is not to say that viewers have not responded to the series in meaningful ways. Ultimately, the series does encourage its viewers to more honestly and earnestly reflect on the diversity of immigrant identities in America and recognize that there is more to lived cultural experiences than marketing or corporate branding can articulate.

References Adalian, J. (2019, April 30). How Hulu got serious about comedy. Vulture. https://www.vulture.com/2019/04/hulu-­comedy-­shrill-­pen15-­ramy.html Andreeva, N. (2020, February 24). ‘Love, Simon’ Spinoff Series ‘Love, Victor’ Moves From Disney+ To Hulu, Sets Launch & Opens Season 2 Writers Room. Deadline. https://deadline.com/2020/02/love-­simon-­spinoff-­series-­love-­

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victor-­m oves-­f rom-­d isney-­t o-­h ulu-­p remiere-­d ate-­o pens-­s eason-­2 -­w riters-­ room-­1202866549/ Arab American Institute. (n.d.). Demographics at Arab American Institute. Demographics. https://www.aaiusa.org/tags/demographics. Accessed 13 May 2020. Blyth, A. (2019, June 10). Ramy Youssef on making ‘Ramy’. Deadline. https://deadline.com/2019/06/ramy-­youseff-­hulu-­emmys-­interview-­news-­1202626351/ Caldwell, J. (2006). Critical industrial practice: Branding, repurposing, and the migratory patterns of industrial texts. Television & New Media, 7(2), 99–134. https://doi.org/10.1177/1527476403255811. Gray, J. (2010). Show sold separately: Promos, spoilers, and other media Paratexts. New York/London: NYU Press. Gross, T. (2019, June 25). Comic Ramy Youssef on being an ‘Allah Carte’ Muslim. NPR. https://www.npr.org/2019/06/25/735658229/ comic-­ramy-­youssef-­on-­being-­an-­allah-­carte-­muslim-­you-­sit-­in-­contradictions Howell, C. E. (2020). Divine programming: Negotiating Christianity in American dramatic television production 1996–2016. New York: Oxford University Press. Hussain, A. (2009). The fire next time: Sleeper Cell and Muslims on television post 9/11. In D. Winston (Ed.), Small screen big picture: Television and lived religion (pp. 153–170). Waco, Texas: Baylor University Press. Jaramillo, D. L. (2002). The family racket: AOL Time Warner, HBO, the sopranos, and the construction of a quality brand. Journal of Communication Inquiry, 26(1), 59–75. https://doi.org/10.1177/0196859902026001005. Johnson, C. (2012). Branding television. New York: Routledge. Johnson, V. E. (2000). Welcome home?: CBS, PAX-TV, and “heartland” values in a neo-network era. The Velvet Light Trap, 46(Fall), 40–55. Lang, B. (2018, November 18). Apple taps A24 to produce slate of films. Variety. https://variety.com/2018/film/news/apple-­a24-­films-­1203029800/ Mendoza, C. (2019, April 29). Hulu’s original comedy ‘Ramy’ earnestly depicts Muslim worship. Newsy. https://www.newsy.com/stories/ hulu-­original-­ramy-­earnestly-­depicts-­muslim-­worship/ MSN. (n.d.). Watch Ramy. MSN Entertainment: Watch Online. https://www. msn.com/en-­us/entertainment/rf-­watch-­online/tv-­shows/ramy. Accessed 1 May 2020. Newcomb, H. (1990). Religion on television. In J.  P. Ferre (Ed.), Channels of belief (pp. 29–44). Ames, Iowa: Iowa State University Press. Newman, M. Z., & Levine, E. (2012). Legitimating television: Media convergence and cultural status. New York: Routledge. Pedersen, E. (2019, May 1). ‘Pen15’ & ‘Ramy’ renewed for season 2 on Hulu. Deadline. https://deadline.com/2019/05/ pen15-­ramy-­renewed-­hulu-­season-­2-­1202604993/

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Perren, A. (2015). The trick of the trades: Media industry studies and the American comic book industry. In M. Banks, B. Conor, & V. Mayer (Eds.), Production studies, the sequel!: Cultural studies of global media industries (pp.  227–237). New York/London: Routledge. Petski, D. (2019, May 16). ‘Ramy’: Lionsgate takes international rights to Hulu/A24 comedy series. Deadline. https://deadline.com/2019/05/ramy-­ lionsgate-­takes-­international-­rights-­to-­hulu-­a24-­comedy-­eries-­1202616364/ Pew Research Center. (2017). U.S.  Muslims concerned about their place in society, but continue to believe in the American dream: Findings from Pew Research Center’s 2017 survey of U.S.  Muslims. Religion & Public Life. Updated July 26, 2017. https://www.pewforum.org/2017/07/26/ demographic-­portrait-­of-­muslim-­americans/ Ramy. (2019). Created by Ramy Youssef, Ari Katcher, and Ryan Welch. Produced by Jeanie Igoe, Inman Young, Tyson Bidner, Jamin O’Brien, and Nathan Reinhart. Hulu. Ramy Youssef Explains Why the Term ‘Moderate Muslim’ Is Problematic. (2019, June 25). Video, 6:44. From Late Night with Seth Meyers, posted by “Late Night with Seth Meyers.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hst2qZ8oTGc Ritman, A. (2019, August 6). A24 comedy series ‘Ramy’ heading to Europe with StarzPlay. The Hollywood Reporter. https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/ news/a24-­comedy-­series-­ramy-­heading-­europe-­starzplay-­1229559 Sanson, K., & Steirer, G. (2019). Hulu, streaming, and the contemporary television ecosystem. Media, Culture & Society, 41(8), 1210–1227. https://doi. org/10.1177/0163443718823144. Shaheen, J. G. (2009). Reel bad Arabs: How Hollywood vilifies a people. Ithaca, NY: Olive Branch Press. Sperling, N. (2019, March 11). Inside Ramy Youssef’s American dream. Vanity Fair. https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2019/03/ ramy-­yousseff-­hulu-­show-­trailer-­premiere-­interview SXSW. (n.d.). Ramy. SXSW films. https://www.sxsw.com/films/ramy/. Accessed 21 Apr 2020. The Walt Disney Company. (2020, February 5). Q1 FY20 earnings conference call. https://thewaltdisneycompany.com/app/uploads/2020/02/q1-­fy20-­ earnings-­transcript.pdf Thorne, W. (2019, July 26). Mahershala Ali Joins ‘Ramy’ Season 2  in Guest Role. Variety. https://variety.com/2019/tv/news/ mahershala-­ali-­ramy-­season-­2-­1203280997/ Wayne, M. L. (2018). Netflix, Amazon, and branded television content in subscription video on-demand portals. Media Culture and Society, 40(5), 725–741. https://doi.org/10.1177/0163443717736118. Winston, D. (2009). Introduction. In D. Winston (Ed.), Small screen big picture: Television and lived religion (pp. 1–14). Waco, TX: Baylor University Press.

CHAPTER 8

Un Puente a la Mesa: The Role of Cultural Translators in the Production of Disney/ Pixar’s Coco Litzy Galarza and Paulina A. Rodríguez Burciaga

As with all things Disney, controversy soon followed news of the production of an animated film based on Día de los Muertos (DDLM) which would become Coco. In 2013, reports that Disney sought to trademark the phrase DDLM surfaced. Chicanxs and Latinxs mobilized, including Chicano cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz, to pressure the multinational media giant to withdraw the trademark paperwork. The trademark was withdrawn after three days and the film was subsequently renamed Coco in 2015 (Thomas, 2015), and prominent Chicanxs and Latinxs were hired on as cultural consultants (Vargas, 2015). Controversy regarding Disney’s

L. Galarza (*) University of North Alabama, Florence, AL, USA e-mail: [email protected] P. A. Rodríguez Burciaga Penn State University, State College, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_8

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portrayal of Latinxs originated with Disney Junior’s Sofia the First (2012) after executives mistakenly claimed Princess Sofia was the first Latina princess. The executives backtracked on this claim and Disney’s Craig Gerber went on to also produce Elena of Avalor, Disney’s first official Latina princess, with the help of cultural consultants (Williams, 2016). Elena of Avalor featured an episode titled “A Day to Remember” in October 2016 that focused on DDLM (Cordero, 2016). The Disney/Pixar announcement was also controversial because another film, The Book of Life (2014), focused on DDLM was already in the works with 20th Century Fox and critics were concerned about similarities between the two films (Robinson, 2016). This chapter draws on trade publications to highlight the role of cultural translators (CTs), many of whom are first- and second-generation Americans, in the production of the film Coco. Studying the presence of Latinx CTs, informed by scholarship on the body, at the various decision-making tables surrounding the production of Coco is important because there are few Latinxs in animation. The lived experiences of CTs, including the histories that their bodies carry, inform what they bring to the table, stories that hold special connection to their ancestry. Their negotiations of culture and contributions to creative production processes can be materially traced and long-lasting. This chapter first addresses the governing relationships between Disney and Pixar to contextualize how Disney’s acquisition of Pixar in 2006 has influenced the project. Disney’s historical involvement in Latin America is also addressed, as previous industry practices inform present ones. Next, this chapter contextualizes scholarship on cultural intermediaries (Bourdieu, 1984; Featherstone, 1991; Negus, 2002; Nixon, 1997) and creative managers (Hesmondhalgh, 2006) to address why cultural translation (Conway, 2012; Piñón, 2011) better addresses the role of Latinxs and others in negotiating identity and culture in Coco’s production.

Disney/Pixar’s Coco: A Series of Firsts Coco tells a story about Miguel, a 12-year-old boy, and his ancestral journey to the “Land of the Dead” in pursuit of becoming a musician. Miguel is part of a family of shoemakers in Santa Cecilia whose musical roots tie his family to the fate of Ernesto De La Cruz, a singer derived from Mexico’s legendary Pedro Infante. Coco is Disney/Pixar’s 19th film and the first Disney/Pixar collaboration to feature a minority lead character (Contreras, 2017) and all-Latinx cast  (AnimationXpress Team, 2017a),

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including exclusively Mexican actors, for both the English and Spanish-­ language versions (Lang, 2019). This is no small feat since Hollywood notoriously struggles1 with diversity. Additionally, Coco introduces audiences to more than 25 characters (De La Fuente, 2017). The film is also the first Pixar production featuring a story based on a cultural celebration (Guerrasio, 2017), the longest Pixar film in production, which took over six years (Reuben, 2017), and the first original production since The Good Dinosaur in 2015 (Orr, 2017). Coco’s accolades include two Oscar wins, best animated film and best original song (Kit, 2019), and 11 Annie awards, including best feature film (Tartaglione, 2018a). Coco is the first Disney/Pixar production to enlist cultural consultants2 for production and development (Ugwu, 2017). Pixar, known for closely guarding the creative process, opened its doors to outsiders for the first time for periodic screenings3 of the unfinished film (Riefe, 2017). Coco is also the first Disney/Pixar film to premiere in Mexico going against traditional studio practice prioritizing domestic debuts (Gouldthorpe, 2017). To appeal to Latinx families whose primary language is Spanish, Disney developed an application called “TheatreEars” that gave U.S. audiences access to Coco’s dubbing in their preferred language4 via their smartphones (Fuster, 2017). Plans to have actors in Spain dub Coco for local audiences were scrapped, making Coco the first film since Beauty and the Beast (1991) to buck this trend (Betancourt, 2017). Lastly, Disney/Pixar also launched its first virtual reality experience based on Coco with Oculus Rift and Magnopus prior to the domestic debut (Roettgers, 2017). The developments unique to the production of Coco illustrate the significant nature of the film in the studios’ production trajectory.

1  In a 2015 study conducted by the University of Southern California’s Annenberg School for Communications and Journalism, of the 800 films analyzed, only 5.3 percent of the characters were Latinx (Reyes, 2017). This is despite the fact that Latinx are avid moviegoers, representing 23 percent of tickets at the box office (Coyle, 2017). 2  Disney’s Moana (2016) also drew on consultants for culturally sensitive portrayals of Polynesian culture (Contreras, 2017). 3  Coco was screened before audiences for criticism nine times prior to the global premiere (Nieto, 2017). 4  Unkrich confirmed Coco was dubbed into at least 47 different languages. The Spanishlanguage dubbing was prioritized early on (O’Connor, 2017).

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Literature Review Pierre Bourdieu’s theory of culture (1993) informs production analysis of cultural texts even though his work does not explain how products disseminated by the media are produced (Hesmondhalgh, 2006, p.  218). Hesmondhalgh suggests others have misunderstood Bourdieu’s (1984) cultural intermediaries (2006, pp.  226–7). Quoting Bourdieu, Hesmondhalgh argues that the term cultural intermediaries actually refers to critics within the cultural industries who mediate between producers and consumers and does not refer to those also involved in producing cultural texts (2006, p. 226). He concludes that the term is overly broad and inadequate for addressing relationships between media, cultural production, and consumption (p. 227). Maguire and Matthews (2010) argue that reducing cultural intermediaries to the professions of critics and commentators moves too far in the opposite direction (p. 407). Other variations of cultural intermediaries (Negus, 2002; Nixon & Du Gay, 2002) include cultural workers (Wright, 2005), gatekeepers (Hirsch, 1972), creative managers (Hesmondhalgh, 2007), and cultural translators (Conway, 2012; Piñón, 2011). Conway (2012) and Piñón (2011) focus on the role of CTs in the production of Ugly Betty (2006–2010), a telenovela adaptation. Though Coco is an original production, drawing on Conway (2012) and Piñón (2011) is fitting because they operationalize the term CTs in similar but distinct ways. Conway’s discussion of cultural translation is rooted in anthropological and postcolonial scholarship on culture and is also informed by research on media imperialism and adaptation studies (2012, pp. 587–588). Thinking of cultural translation as performative acts carried out by hybrid peoples in their negotiations identity and culture, Conway (2012) defines CTs as “intermediaries between two communities that perceive themselves as distinct because of their divergent cultures” and “participate in a larger negotiations over questions of identity and social or political power” (p. 588). These relations of power among diverse communities are influenced by history, economics, and geopolitics among other factors. For Piñón (2011), the term CTs allows for the exploration of social and cultural dimensions of the roles of U.S. Latinxs as producers who “function as facilitators, building bridges between generations and social groups” (p. 394). Piñón (2011) references Calafell’s (2007) scholarship on ethnic bodily performativity where Latinx biracial identities become a bridge, or “‘a site of negotiation, negation, or connection with those communities in

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power’” (p. 394). Piñón (2011) also draws on Bourdieu’s (1993) habitus and unequal access to symbolic capital to address the role of Latinx producers as CTs in the U.S. television industry as a field of cultural production (p. 398). Although trade publications, and the Pixar team, refer to Latinxs enlisted to help with Coco as cultural consultants, the term is inadequate for this study. If cultural consultants are adopted, then the involvement of other Latinxs in the production of this film would go unnoticed. A number of Latinxs worked for Pixar prior to the DDLM project and were brought on as cultural consultants after the trademark controversy. Trade publications highlight upward mobility in creative positions for newly enlisted Latinxs and those who have worked with Disney/Pixar longer. As such, it would be reductionist to suggest that only Latinxs who were named cultural consultants by Disney/Pixar were engaged in negotiations of identity and culture. Piñón (2011) writes that the term CT can also include members of a production’s cast in noting actress America Ferrera’s role in representing the “sensibility of a second-generation Latina” in Ugly Betty. Informed by Conway (2012) and Piñón (2011), the term CTs refers to Latinxs, with various creative titles including but not limited to cultural consultants, character artists, and songwriters among others. To contextualize the impact of CTs in the production process, this study also highlights the governing relationships between creative managers, or those who mediate between the interests of owners and executives, primarily profits, and the interests of creative personnel, such as innovation, success, and prestige (2007, p. 64). As such, those who might fight Hesmondhalgh’s description of creative managers for Coco include people like Dave Hollis, president of theatrical distribution for The Walt Disney Studios, John Lasseter, the former chief creative officer for Pixar Animation Studios, Darla K. Anderson, formerly5 a producer with Pixar Animation Studios, and director Lee Unkrich among others. This chapter draws on trade publications6 to answer the following questions: 5  Anderson left Pixar a few days before Coco won the Academy Award for best animated feature film in 2018. Netflix agreed to a multi-year development deal with Anderson in January 2019 to expand the streaming company’s kids and family content to compete with Disney’s new streaming service “Disney Plus” (Lang, 2019). 6  Using LexisNexis Academic, now LexisUni, the authors conducted a search for all publications for the terms: Coco, Disney, Pixar, dia de los muertos, and day of the dead. The search was completed on June 13, 2018, and yielded nearly 500 publications with dates

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1. How did the Disney acquisition of Pixar in 2006 and the DDLM trademark controversy impact subsequent relationships between creative managers, such as executives and producers, and Latinx CTs? 2. What are the roles of CTs in the production of the film? 3. What does the evolution of these roles suggest about the CTs’ negotiation of identity and culture?

Governing Relationships In 2006, The Walt Disney Company announced a $7.4 billion dollar deal for the acquisition of Pixar Animation Studios. The deal was a result of negotiations addressing whether Pixar’s distribution partnership with Disney would be extended. In the announcement, representatives of the two media companies suggested that Pixar’s “unusual culture” would not be threatened, as Pixar would continue to be managed independently. Lasseter7 was named the chief creative officer for both animation studios and would directly report to Disney’s chief executive officer Bob Iger. The formula for success at both Disney and Pixar moving forward would be separately produced sequels (Holson, 2006). Since Coco (2017), Pixar’s slate of productions only features sequels until 2020 (Orr, 2017). Sequels are a safe bet due to built-in audiences and established animated worlds. Disney is renowned for its synergistic practices where sequels with established toys represent lucrative opportunities through tie-in merchandising, theme park rides, and other ventures (Wasko, 2001). Lee Unkrich8 pitched the concept of the film to John Lasseter in September 2011 after being inspired by paper mache skeletons dressed as mariachi band members during a family vacation at the Mexico pavilion ranging between August 2015 and May 2018. The search was limited to publications in English and all results were downloaded as PDF files, archived, and printed. Though the analysis in this study prioritizes industry publications, all search queries including news articles, blogs, and magazines were analyzed for discussions that addressed relationships between the individuals involved in the production of the film. 7  Lasseter took a leave from Pixar, a company which he co-founded, due to “claims of ‘inappropriate hugging’” days before Coco premiered in 2017 (Whitington, 2018) and left Disney in June 2018 (Barnes, 2018). 8  In January 2019, Unkrich announced he would retire from Pixar after 25 years with the California-based animation studio. Under the mentorship of Lasseter, Unkrich rose from being an editor for Toy Story (1995) to solo-directing Toy Story 3 (2010), which grossed over a billion dollars (Kit, 2019).

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inside the Epcot theme park (Fan, 2018). His Oscar win for best animated film directing Toy Story 3 (2010) certainly did not hurt Unkrich’s odds of getting Lasseter’s approval for a film based on DDLM (Thompson, 2017). Lasseter, a self-described “unusual executive,” seeks challenging projects through a faith-based approach to cultural production. Pixar teams are required to pitch three “brilliant” ideas, which are periodically screened before peers for feedback (De Vera, 2017). Producer Anderson also sees the animation process as a way to push the technology and team to problem-­solve (Thompson, 2017). The research trips to Mexico were agreed upon prior to the DDLM controversy. “We didn’t want to backwards-construct the story and then do an overlay of culture on top of it,” co-director and second-generation Mexican American Adrian Molina says, “we decided pretty much when the film was greenlit  – maybe even before  – that we wanted to get the research done early” (Cavna, 2017). The team went to Oaxaca in October 2011 to observe DDLM celebrations and returned for a second trip to Guanajuato in 2012 (Grobar, 2017). The untitled film was announced in 2012 and did not have a distinct narrative focus other than being set against DDLM (Moreno, 2016). After the early script, 3D animation, and story development, Anderson says the team was excited because DDLM is “a world that does lend itself to animation” and that Unkrich is “deeply a part of the Pixar DNA and he knows all the levels we have to hit” (Thompson, 2017). The established relationships between the creative managers, including Lasseter, Unkrich, and Anderson, were foundational to greenlighting the project and getting the team through various production hurdles, especially story development (Desowitz, 2017). Then came the parent company’s attempt to trademark the DDLM holiday in 2013. The television arm of Disney was already embroiled in controversy regarding its portrayal of Latinxs in Sofia the First. Nancy Kantor, senior vice president of original programming for Disney Junior Worldwide, and co-executive producer/writer Craig Gerber backtracked the claim that Sofia was the “first Latina princess” and instead asserted that she was of Spanish and Scandinavian descent (Nolasco, 2012). Gerber saw the need for a Latina princess and subsequently produced Elena of Avalor, which contributed to the anticipation of a Latinx-centered full-length feature film.

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DDLM Trademark: From “Muerto Mouse” to “a Blessing in Disguise” The Walt Disney Company filed ten applications for merchandising, including toys, jewelry, and cereal, with the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office for the phrase “Día de los Muertos” in May 2013. At the time, the parent company anticipated producing an untitled movie about the centuries-­old holiday celebrated not only in Mexico, but also in Latin America, Europe, and the United States. DDLM, with roots dating back to the indigenous Aztec culture, “honors the dead by building altars, decorating gravesites, and holding processions” (Flores, 2013). These celebrations include traditional foods and crafts such as decorated sugar skulls, candles, flowers such as Cempasúchiles (marigold flowers), and papel picado (intricately designed tissue paper). DDLM is celebrated by the Mexican diaspora in major cities in the United States including Chicago, Los Angeles, and San Antonio (Dobrin, 2017). Once the filings were reported on, a change.org petition was circulated to prevent Disney from obtaining the trademark and garnered more than 20,000 signatures (Guerrasio, 2017). In protest, long-time Disney critic and Chicano cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz9 drew “Muerto Mouse,” which he describes as “a giant calavera monster sized mouse rampaging through the streets ‘coming to trademark your cultura’” (Gibbons, 2017). Alcaraz was critiquing the attempt to commercialize not only the phrase but also the cultural holiday of DDLM. The controversy continued when Alcaraz agreed to be a consultant after meeting with the producer and interviewing Disney executives about their intentions with the newly titled Coco project in 2015 (Gibbons, 2017). Alcaraz claims that the president of Disney was unaware of the trademark filings and ordered that they be withdrawn, signaling a rare victory (Vargas, 2015). The trademark fiasco, Unkrich and Molina concede, “ended up being kind of a blessing in disguise” (Del Barco, 2017) and led to better communication between the Pixar team and Latinx CTs hired after the research trips (Child, 2017).

9  In 1994, Alcaraz drew a cartoon protesting Disney’s donation in support of incumbent California Governor Pete Wilson’s re-election campaign. Wilson supported a ballot initiative, Prop 187, that would make public education and non-emergency healthcare for undocumented immigrants inaccessible. The cartoon was called “Migra Mouse” and depicts Mickey Mouse dressed in a border guard’s uniform (MacLellan, 2017).

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Others10 have inadequately claimed that the Pixar team’s visits to Mexico were no different from Walt Disney’s travels to Latin America in the 1940s. The following section offers a closer engagement with Disney’s involvement in Latin America. Disney in Latin America: Research Trips Then and Now As part of Franklin D.  Roosevelt’s Good Neighbor policy,11 the federal government funded a ten-week tour for Walt Disney and a crew of eighteen writers, artists, and musicians to South America (Okubo & Thomas, 2010). Roosevelt emphasized the importance of the motion picture industry in promoting political solidarity within the Western hemisphere (Hess, 2017). In particular, the “A-B-C countries,” Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, where a large population of German immigrants and refugees grew as a result of World War II (Cereijido & Hinojosa, 2017). The government’s backing came at a most opportune time for Disney, as a union strike in the Spring of 1941 forced him to shut down the studio for a month prior to the sponsored tour (Wasko, 2001). Capitalizing on this opportunity, Disney and “El Grupo,” a name given to them by their South American hosts, quickly embraced their role as foreign diplomats. In Walt and El Grupo (2010), director Theodore Thomas reveals Disney stayed at the famous Copacabana Paradise Hotel while the others stayed at the Gloria Hotel a few miles away in Brazil. Disney animator Frank Thomas says “we’ve been able to tell [Mr. Disney] things he didn’t know. His contacts are all arranged by the government” (Okubo & Thomas, 2010). During his time in Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, Disney was mainly concerned with diplomatic matters, including meetings, coordinated by the U.S. government, with heads of state and public appearances. In turn, the Brazilian government used the visit to negotiate relationships with both Axis and Allied nations (Okubo & Thomas, 2010). The trips to Latin America in 1941 illustrate the close relationship between the state and Disney.

10  Martín-Rodríguez suggests that the research trips behind the production of Coco were no different from Disney’s previous endeavors in Latin America (2019, p. 364). 11  FDR’s Good Neighbor policy aimed to thwart the spread of fascism to Latin America, especially in countries such as Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, and promote goodwill with the United States (Gutiérrez, 2000; Goldman, 2013; Hess, 2017).

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The production team returned to the U.S. with a wealth of material that informed Disney’s next two films Saludos Amigos (1942) and The Three Caballeros (1944). Saludos Amigos received praise from U.S. and Latin American critics, mainly because animators relied heavily on one of Disney’s well-known protagonists. The film captured the trip through the eyes of Donald Duck, whom animators portrayed as the “loving-­American-­ idiot” abroad, who often served as the victim of jokes. In the context of Good Neighbor politics, Donald Duck successfully carried out the U.S. message of allyship across South America. Recent film scholars, however, criticize the reliance on racist tropes in the representation of Latin Americans and Mexicans in these Good Neighbor films (Goldman, 2013; Hess, 2017). The Pixar team embraced a similar strategy and openly recognized the importance of the research trips behind the making of Coco in trade publications and the film’s bonus materials (Unkrich et al., 2018); however both trips, Disney’s and Pixar’s, occurred at different historical and sociopolitical moments, under different governing relationships, and with striking differences between production teams. The federal government’s investment in Disney in 1941 separates the ten-week tour from the research trips for Coco in 2011 and 2012. As part of the federal government’s Good Neighbor policy, Disney’s trip served as a diplomatic tour with state-planned engagements and staged encounters for the films. Walt and El Grupo relied heavily on South American governments for guidance. “The [Brazilian] government has been very helpful in getting research material for us and taking us around,” animator Frank Thomas says, “but they don’t mention the small little places to eat or how to save money in stores and taxis” (Okubo & Thomas, 2010). In contrast, the Pixar team visited remote places in Mexico without financial support, or coordination, from the U.  S., rather they relied on “people from all walks of life in the Latino community” for guidance (Santoro, 2017). The racial and ethnic makeup of the Pixar team distinguished them from El Grupo. Whereas in 1941 Disney lacked the insight of defined cultural consultants, Unkrich and Molina relied on an established network of CTs throughout the research process. Embedding12 the Pixar team with Mexican families was as much about observing DDLM traditions as it was 12  Dean Kelly, a lead storyboard artist, says traveling to Mexico was necessary because culture can only be fully experienced by being on location and interacting with local communities. He says, “it’s one thing to look at books and Google images, but to actually go to the

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about multi-generational family interactions and dynamics. The Pixar team’s experiences and observations of Mexican communities, Unkrich says, “ended up being woven into the fabric of what became Coco” (Grobar, 2017). As such, trade publications suggest the major strategies behind production initially included Unkrich’s reliance “on several research trips to Mexico and the personal stories of Latino team members, which helped ground his fantasy realm with specific geographic and sociological roots” (Ugwu, 2017). Having been to Mexico and interacted with local artisans, Unkrich says the production of alebrijes, or spirit animals, was off the table because doing so would interfere with the artisans’ livelihoods. As such, the Pixar team only agreed to producing toys for key characters and avoided folk-inspired characters (Century, 2018). The material contributions of first- and second-generation Latinx CTs in producing Coco reflect their intimate and multidirectional relationship with the people of Mexico (Santoro, 2017). Creatives in both research groups considered their trips integral to their production process. Still, their approaches to translating culture differed significantly. In 1941, Disney and El Grupo took part in a larger foreign policy mission, aimed at projecting an image of unity across the Western Hemisphere, without real attention to achieving cultural competency. With the acquisition of Pixar, Disney gained creatives that carried knowledge and engaged in a process of negotiation with communities in Mexico, as well as within the research group.

At the Table: The Varied Roles of Latinx Cultural Translators The impetus to closely identify, tease out, and memorialize the contributions of CTs, and their communities of influence, in the production of Coco is rooted in the understanding that identity and culture are performative, relational, and informed by geopolitical histories (Conway, 2012) affecting Latinxs, particularly those of Mexican ancestry in the U.S., and Latin Americans. This section highlights the contributions of communities and specific individuals who were part of the creative development processes of Coco prior, during, and after the research trips.

source and just be completely embraced by the families that we met there -- they opened their arms and their doors and their hearts to us” (Melanson, 2018).

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“Ni de aquí, ni de allá”: Latinx and Mexican Communities Informing Coco Unkrich attributes the Latinx communities in Los Angeles for exposing him to folk art and iconography surrounding DDLM celebrations and traditions. This contact with the Latinx community inspired Unkrich’s basic idea for a story set against DDLM (Whitington, 2018). Unkrich says that “meetings with the consultants and Latino community didn’t lead to any major changes13 to the story” (AnimationXpress Team, 2017b). However, Unkrich contradicts himself in other trade publications and interviews cited throughout this chapter. This is especially true because cultural translation is not merely interpretation, but negotiation between communities with varying degrees of agency (Conway, 2012). These negotiations began before the research trips and continued through the periodic film screenings. The Pixar team relied on “a wider network of 30 to 40 volunteer14 advisers” (Ugwu, 2017). Molina says the production of Coco “leaned very heavily at the studio on [Mexican and] Latino artists, from the animation side to the story side to the art/visual development side” (Cavna, 2017). These communities got together to discuss which aspects of the story felt “right,” “not so right,” “familiar,” and or “different” (Child, 2017). The presence of Latinx CTs at periodic screenings led to “a lot of adjustment along the way as people told their own personal stories about their own abuelas and people within their family,” Unkrich says, “and that slowly shaped the story and slowly brought it to this more truthful place” (Cereijido & Freleng, 2017). Prominent writers, political figures, and media executives were also invited to preliminary screenings (Guerrasio, 2017). Focusing solely on trade publications, however, limits analysis of the contributions of other Latinx CTs. Many of the unnamed individuals from Mexican and Latinx communities are unlikely to be interviewed by the press. As much was obvious in screening the extras of Coco and realizing that many more Latinxs were invited to preliminary screenings of the film, such as Pixar cafe service manager Vivian Rodriguez. Other Pixar employees who provided feedback throughout various stages of development include Louis Gonzales, Carolina Ángel, Jesús Martinez, Ernesto Nemecio, Jonas Rivera, Adrian 13  This is the same quote and source that Martín-Rodríguez uses to draw different conclusions (2019, p. 365). 14  This chapter notes when a CT is identified as unpaid in the trade publications.

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Maruri, Anthony David Duran, and Manuel Zenon. In their reflections, the artists and staff emphasized the importance of Latinx representation and their reliance on lived experience when providing feedback for the film. Anthony David Duran, listed as the home entertainment coordinator in the film’s credits, and Daniel Arriaga, second-generation American of Mexican ancestry and Pixar sketch artist since 2001, allude to the negotiation of identity they felt while working on this film. “No soy ni de aquí, ni de allá,” Arriaga says, which translates to “I am not from here, nor there.” As a result of their occupation of space within the Mexican American diaspora, and some more broadly from a Latin American diaspora, Latinx CTs exhibit a profound awareness of their situated perspectives. It is with this sense that they shaped and negotiated their Mexican American identities with the production of a specifically Mexican story. Furthermore, Latinx CTs also said there was a continuous dialogue between the production team and Pixar employees not directly associated with Coco (Unkrich et al., 2018). Upward Mobility: Pixar Veterans and Newly Enlisted CTs See Their Roles Evolve Marcela Davidson Aviles, a second-generation American of Mexican ancestry, is the first CT enlisted for the project (Century, 2018). Aviles is a media strategist, Mexican Heritage Corporation president, and executive producer of Camino Arts (Desowitz, 2017). Alcaraz credits Aviles, a long-­ time Disney consultant, for suggesting to a producer that he be considered for the project. Aviles has worked in the film industry for over two decades (Gomez, 2018). Unkrich says the team “asked one of the first consultants [they] met with to make a list of every cliché that has ever bothered her about the depiction of the Latino culture in Hollywood” (Whitington, 2018). Mexican native, and first-generation American, Carla Hool was enlisted as casting director. Hool’s presence in the industry is notable because she ran one of Mexico’s first casting agencies and later launched her own Hollywood casting15 agency. Many of the people

15  Prior to Coco, Hool helped with casting for the Netflix series Narcos (2015–2017). Hool subsequently worked on casting for the 2019 film Miss Bala, which cast Afro-Latino Ismael Cruz Córdova alongside Jane The Virgin’s (2014–2019) Gina Rodriguez (Cheng, 2018).

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subsequently hired to voice characters and contribute to the film’s soundtracks16 are Mexican or of Mexican ancestry, many of whom travel between Mexico and the United States and serve as a bridge between communities and generations. Camilo Lara, DJ and remix artist with the Mexican Institute of Sound, was hired as a musical consultant and helped recruit musicians in Mexico (Grobar, 2017). Composer Germaine Franco, a third-generation Mexican American who grew up traveling back and forth between El Paso and Ciudad Juárez, co-wrote many of the songs with Pixar veteran Michael Giacchino, who oversaw the musical score. Lara, Franco, and Giacchino spent four days composing variations of the score with fifty of the top musicians in Mexico City (Burlingame, 2017). Many newly enlisted CTs saw their roles multiply throughout the production process. Luis Valdez, founder of Teatro Campesino and second-­ generation Chicano, also got to voice the character of Tio Berto. In addition to serving as a CT, Alcaraz also got to add professional voiceover work to his list of contributions for Coco. Alcaraz voiced an angry mariachi featured early in the film (Gomez, 2018). Playwright Octavio Solis, second-­generation American of Mexican ancestry, also got to lend voice to the “Arrivals Agent” in the “Land of the Dead” (AnimationXpress Team, 2017b). Summarizing the relationship between the production team and Latinx CTs specifically enlisted for Coco, Solis says, “Pixar embedded themselves in Mexican culture and then they embedded us in the animation process” (Desowitz, 2017). Herbert Siguenza, second-generation American of Salvadoran descent and initially a “behind-the-scenes” adviser, also saw his role evolve into voicing not one but two characters, twins Tio Felipe and Tio Oscar. Hearing his voiceovers, which were recorded in isolation, and seeing the animation come together illustrated the importance of Siguenza’s contributions to the film. Siguenza describes seeing the film for the first time with his wife and six-year-old daughter as a surreal but tearful experience because the production captured the essence of Latinxs’ family traditions. Siguenza considers his daughter, third generation, lucky to have a film to look up to at her age, “‘we never had anything like this when we were growing up. ‘The Jungle Book’ was the first brown kid I’d seen. We kind of related to him a little bit, but that was it.’” Being part of a pop-culture

16  Musicians like Marco Antonio Solis, Bronco, La Santa Cecilia, Carlos Rivera, and Karol Sevilla among others are part of Coco’s Latin American soundtrack (De La Fuente, 2017).

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film produced by a global powerhouse is surreal for Siguenza because the Disney/Pixar world ensures near immortality17 Coco (Hebert, 2017). Pixar veterans also saw their roles evolve during production for Coco. Molina18 was promoted to screenwriter, songwriter, and co-director. Unkrich says that Molina “was able to tap into his own family history in a way that I don’t think I, the film never would have gotten to the same place had I not been working with a Latino screenwriter” (Cereijido & Freleng, 2017). When describing what his parents thought of Coco, Molina says his parents were proudly touched by the representation of their Mexican heritage. But they were also proud to see him explore, embrace, and create art based on his culture. For Molina, working on Coco has served as a bridge to connect his ancestral belonging to the process of cultural translation (Gross, 2018). Other Pixar regulars of Mexican ancestry include Alonso Martinez, Ana Ramirez, and Daniel Arriaga among others. Martinez, a Mexican native, is listed as a cultural consultant, technical director, and character artist who worked on Pepita. Typically, Martinez gets projects assigned to him but requested to work on Coco (Sarup, 2017). Daniel Arriaga, Pixar character art director, was inspired by visits to Mexican cemeteries.19Arriaga describes his role in Coco as a journey that allowed him to transition from spectator to animator, “I feel like I remember being that student in the audience wishing that I could just go out there and do the same [create animated characters] one day” (Vaughn, 2017). Ana Ramirez, native of Guanajuato, Mexico and first-­ generation American, began as an intern for Pixar’s visual design team in 2013 and became an art lead for Coco. Ramirez describes the embodied nature of being an animator as exhausting but also very rewarding. In addition, Ramirez also contributed book artwork for Coco (Derdeyn, 2017). Evelina Fernandez, L.A. Theater Center, and altaristas Ofelia and Rosanna Esparza, who are master altar makers and worked with Boyle Heights’ Self Help Graphics & Art, were also enlisted for their expertise in 17  The themes of remembrance and immortality were incorporated in the end credits of Coco. The production team, including CTs, provided photographs of their departed ancestors (Unkrich et al., 2018). 18  Molina previously worked on Toy Story 3 (2010), Monsters University (2013), The Good Dinosaur (2015) (Giardina, 2017). 19  During the research trips to Mexico, Arriaga saw a happy, as opposed to scary and sad, cemetery for the first time. That was essential for his depiction of the cemetery in the film. From those trips, Arriaga learned about the meaning of ofrendas and brought the DDLM tradition to his family in the US (Unkrich et al., 2018).

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the holiday of DDLM.  During preliminary screenings, Fernandez provided suggestions on musical elements that were subsequently incorporated (Riefe, 2017). Alex Nogales, president and chief executive of the National Hispanic Media Coalition, is listed as an unpaid adviser (Ugwu, 2017).

Textual Manifestations Having addressed the governing relationships and the role of CTs at the table, this section turns to the textual manifestations of both through trade publications. The first major contributions of Mexican communities to the production processes were their negotiations of culture and identity during the Pixar research trips which culminated in a major revision to the original story idea. The research trips also informed the animation of the “Land of the Living” and the “Land of the Dead.” Latinx CTs had an impact on language, mannerisms, and family dynamics. To suggest that their contributions were minimal diminishes the importance of their presence in predominantly non-Latinx spaces. The Original Story Idea: An American Protagonist and Western Approach to DDLM In Unkrich’s original story idea, the protagonist was a U.S.-born kid, with a Mexican mother who died, who visited Mexico with his father to grieve his mother and learn about DDLM.  This idea made sense for Unkrich because audiences unfamiliar with the holiday would be exposed to the celebrations through the protagonist (Whitington, 2018). Had the initial story idea been pursued, the Pixar team would be doing what Molina suggests they sought to avoid—a story that did not connect to DDLM and was instead superficially embellished with culture. The research trips to Mexico demonstrated that Unkrich’s original idea was antithetical to DDLM because, according to Anderson, the idea “didn’t really embrace the DNA of the holiday, which is not letting go of but staying connected to” (Coyle, 2017). Elsewhere, Unkrich acknowledges the team struggled with the story. “There can be a lot of things technically that are difficult along the way but really the most difficult thing and the thing we spend the most time on is trying to tell a good story,” Unkrich says, “that often means writing and rewriting dozens of times, sometimes ripping the whole movie up and

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starting over again” (Santoro, 2017). Had the story idea remained the same, Coco would have been a very different film. Another major difference would have been the absence of Spanish throughout the English-­ language version of the film. “The original idea was to have the characters speak only English with the understanding that they were really speaking in Spanish,” Solis says, “but for [Latinxs], language is binary, and we code-switch, from English to Spanish seamlessly” (Ugwu, 2017). The Pixar team considered commercial aspects of the film separately from creative decisions. They did explore selecting a non-Mexican protagonist to better market the film in nations entirely unfamiliar with Mexico (Century, 2018). However, the choice to not heed to the commercial imperative, appealing to global audiences, was the result of a major revision to the original story idea. The white U.S.-born American protagonist and Western point of view had to go. The original story was scrapped. The protagonist would be Mexican (Century, 2018) and the afterlife, which the team called “The Land of the Dead,” would have “a kind of quintessential Mexicanness” (Gross, 2018). Until then, Unkrich says, they were making the film as “outsiders” and were concerned that people in Mexico and Latinxs in the U.S. would see the film as a production made by “outsiders” (Cereijido & Freleng, 2017). Hollis says the film became “so much a love letter to the country of Mexico” (McNary, 2017). Having a Latinx, predominantly Mexican, cast subsequently became non-­ negotiable (Grobar, 2017). The commitment to set the story in Mexico and to make the protagonist Mexican was not supported by all-Latinx CTs. For Siguenza, the story’s setting became the film’s shortcoming. Siguenza wanted to see a Mexican American protagonist with a story set in the U.S. to avoid depicting Latinxs as un-American, “‘I’m hoping they take this experience and Americanize it more, where we’re not seen through a foreign lens. And not threatening because, well, we’re in our own country’” (Hebert, 2017). It is unclear whether Siguenza voiced this criticism during the production processes. His critique, however, illustrates the limits of CTs’ ability to influence the creative production processes. However, it is also important to note that there were CTs whose contributions and criticisms might be linked to the absence of specific textual manifestations. For example, Alcaraz raised concerns about “brown-­ facing” the project, when Latinx characters are voiced by white actors (Gomez, 2018). His relationship with Hool resulted in agreement regarding Latinx casting. Hool’s role in casting became even more important

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because she discovered the actor voicing Miguel, Anthony Gonzalez, and previously cast him on the short film Icebox. Hool concedes that only a handful of A-list Latinx celebrities are repeatedly cast in Hollywood, making the entry of newcomers rare. Nogales credits Hool for making Coco a “wonderful surprise” in terms of casting (Cheng, 2018). Revising the Story: The Notion of “Three Deaths” and “La Chancla” The most important contributions of Latinx CTs are all part of the revisions to the original story idea addressed above. The CTs, veteran and newly enlisted Latinxs, were instrumental in getting the Pixar team through the hurdles related to story development and the desire to tell a story that could only be told during DDLM. In other words, the contributions of the CTs that had the most impact were related to “helping Pixar figure out the meaning of death as it relates to the Land of the Dead” (Desowitz, 2017). Molina says the team learned about the three types of deaths—when your heart stops beating, when your body is buried, and a permanent death when you are forgotten—tied to the human experience (Gross, 2018). Informed by his lived experience when headed off to art school in college, Molina incorporated the importance of a family’s blessing to return home (Cereijido & Freleng, 2017). The animation team initially had Miguel’s Abuelita carry a wooden spoon until Alcaraz asked at a roundtable discussion if they thought to include a “chancla gag…cuz it would really kill.” (Unkrich et al., 2018). For Siguenza, having a grandma wield a chancla in a film with global reach is worthy of tears due to the attention to detail. Christian Hoffman, character supervisor, says the inclusion of “la chancla” enhanced the character’s authenticity (Rosenstiel, 2017). The “chancla gag” went beyond the waving of a shoe, and it emphasized the prevalence of strong women within Mexican households. As one of the first to screen the movie, Rodriguez made sure to point out the meaning behind Abuelita’s heightened surveillance, as coming from a place of care and love, evoking the matriarchs in her own family (Unkrich et  al., 2018). Conversely, CTs shaped Miguel’s reaction to this stern type of love. They emphasized respect for elders as a quality Miguel needed to embody and that resulted, according to Molina, in an “empathetic kid where you understood how much he desired to [react] and he had no voice to express that” (Desowitz, 2017). Thus, the inclusion of the chancla represents a specific act that becomes universal (Hebert, 2017).

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Conclusion Coco’s success in foreign markets solidifies the economic imperative of a multinational parent corporation to create content that appeals to global and domestic audiences. In China, Coco’s earnings surprisingly20 surpassed the combined earnings of Pixar’s previous 12 films (Cain, 2017) for a record $190 million (Fan, 2018). And in Mexico, the film became the highest-grossing film of all time, after surpassing The Avengers’ (2012) $43 million in earnings during its entire run, in less than a month (Hecht, 2017). In South Korea, Coco became the second-highest grossing Pixar film, $22.5 million, after Inside Out (2015), $31.7 million, (Tartaglione, 2015, 2018a), and saw a VIP screening presented by a delegation of Mexican dignitaries (Whan-woo, 2018). Coco’s Thanksgiving opening weekend domestic box office tally, $71.2 million placed it fourth behind Frozen (2013), $93 million, Moana (2016), $82 million, and Toy Story 3 (2010), $80 million (McNary, 2017). Coco surpassed the $800 million mark in global box office revenues (Tartaglione, 2018b). The film earned $209.7 million (26 percent) domestically and $597.4 million (74 percent) abroad (Tartaglione, 2018b). Coco revives debates about Pixar’s ability to resist being swallowed whole as a subsidiary (Orr, 2017). “With Coco, even the customary delight of a Pixar short before the movie is missing: In its place is ‘Olaf ’s Frozen Adventure,’ which whatever its quality (it did not screen for critics) suggests that the studio is being ever-more subsumed into its Disney parent” (Orr, 2017). Original Disney/Pixar productions preceding Coco include Inside Out (2015), Up (2009), and Ratatouille (2007), among others. Industry critics suggest the acquisition has pushed Pixar away from “creativity” and closer to “inc,” evidenced by the production of formulaic sequels like The Incredibles 2 (2018) and Toy Story 421) (Child, 2017). Critics agree that Pixar, like other animation studios bought by Disney, faces competing demands for profits via hyper-­commercialized sequels and innovative artistic choices (Reuben, 2017). These industry concerns could not be ignored in the analysis of governing relationships surrounding the production of Coco. 20  Unkrich doubted that the film would do well in China and even debated on whether to submit the paperwork to screen Coco because ghosts are taboo in Chinese culture (Cain, 2017). 21  In March 2019, Disney acquired 20th Century Fox for $71.3 billion (Sims, 2019).

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From a political economy perspective, the production of original films is more difficult because sequels have a built-in universe and audience. There is more pressure for success with originals. With Coco, the pressure was amplified not only because of the DDML trademark controversy but also because the film would be produced by Disney/Pixar, whose parent company has a record of film production based on Latin American cultures. The inclusion of CTs in the production of a film based on a holiday and cultural celebration that is “outsider” to most if not all of the creative managers involved signals that CTs would be the “insiders” with cultural capital and legitimacy in negotiating the representation of DDLM.  As such, Latinx CTs were key to the success of the film because their presence lent legitimacy to the production and altered the story development. Their presence redirected the pressure of producing an original film toward ensuring that the cultural text would center the voices and lived experiences of Mexican communities. The Latinization of the DDLM project is significant because it illustrates the negotiation of identity and culture between “insiders” and “outsiders” but also among multiple generations of Mexican, Mexican American, and Latinx CTs. This chapter has addressed the governing relationships between creative managers and CTs to illustrate how first- and second-generation Americans, mostly of Mexican ancestry, served as a bridge between cultures in the production processes of Coco. The textual manifestation of Latinx CTs’ contributions include revisions to the original story development, such as the need for the family’s blessing, the notion of the three deaths, and the “chancla bit” instead of a wooden spoon. Coco would have been critiqued as a film made by “outsiders” even more with an American protagonist voiced by an internationally recognized actor. Siguenza’s critique of Hollywood’s depictions of Latinxs as foreigners is warranted. However, Coco should be recognized as a transnational endeavor in light of Conway (2012) and Piñón’s (2011) understanding of cultural translation as a metaphor for both the re-entrenchment of geopolitical borders and cultural border-crossing in the production of cultural texts. The labor of Mexicans, such as the many unidentified families that hosted the Pixar team in their homes and shared their food, music, customs, and traditions regarding DDLM and beyond; Mexican Americans, including co-director Adrian Molina’s role in devising the notion of the three deaths and the need of the family’s blessing; Carla Hool’s casting of mostly Latinx actors and musicians, and Germaine Franco’s role as co-­ orchestrator with Michael Giacchino and co-author of four songs with

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Molina; and other Latinx CTs should not be dismissed solely because the on-screen representation of the characters is contained south of the border when the production of the text was inherently transnational and diasporic. Previous scholarship has addressed the role of creative managers in cultural production. Conway (2012) and Piñón (2011) expanded on cultural theory by focusing on Latinx producers’ role in culturally translating the telenovela genre in the production of Ugly Betty. However, the contributions, and negotiation of identity and culture, of people who are not creative managers but whose creative labor is central to cultural production remain undertheorized. Future studies on cultural translation should focus on reception analysis to explore how audience interpretations might serve as a qualitative measure of the contributions of CTs in creative productions. These studies might illustrate the role of paratexts, including promotional materials and press coverage, in shaping audiences’ awareness and interpretation of cultural texts in light of production processes. Moreover, reception analysis can get at the limits of cultural translation in reaching cross-cultural audiences. First- and second-generation Latinxs’ presence at the table uniquely influenced Coco and should not be dismissed. As such, an understanding of their impact drawn from trade publications and audience analysis helps develop the understudied and underdeveloped scholarship on cultural translation in media studies. Cultural translation shifts the focus away from on-screen representation toward the everyday contributions of creative laborers beyond creative managers in the production of culturally competent texts. Longitudinal studies of CTs, much like celebrity studies, are necessary to understand how the labor of CTs extends beyond the success of any one project.

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001587?guccounter=1&guce_referrer=aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuZ29vZ2xlLmN vbS8&guce_referrer_sig=AQAAAFgHrn3P5jZt8hz4-­ueWCze6ckYC5JI9nwo mZCKYQkViCie9IjjLrJgG1u_Y7PMTE3ruN84x-­IQbUnuZ9WenTdMNruc wjxqidrFUXLnWiwj6dSnmvefBiY5tyi3jRQPHG90ZSGGHjaTQxpFbq-­JegG 0UnaqTAe4OKyJ-­7asnMzwz Negus, K. (2002). The work of cultural intermediaries and the enduring distance between production and consumption. Cultural Studies, 16(4), 501–515. https://doi.org/10.1080/09502380210139089. Nieto, A. (2017, December 5). Pixar supervisor shares world of animation with students. The Villanovan. Retrieved from http://www.villanovan.com/culture/pixar-­s upervisor-­s hares-­w orld-­o f-­a nimation-­w ith-­s tudents/article_ f62638f0-­da2d-­11e7-­92dc-­4b5173c308ce.html Nixon, S. (1997). Circulating culture. In P. du Gay (Ed.), Production of culture/ cultures of production. (pp. 177–234). Sage Publications, Inc. Nixon, S., & Gay, P.  D. (2002). Who needs cultural intermediaries? Cultural Studies, 16(4), 495–500. https://doi.org/10.1080/09502380210139070. Nolasco, S. (2012, October 22). Disney responds to Latina princess Sofia outrage. Fox News. Retrieved from https://www.foxnews.com/lifestyle/ disney-­responds-­to-­latina-­princess-­sofia-­outrage O’Connor, C. (2017, November 16). Pixar’s ‘Coco’ required Latino consultants and multiple trips to Mexico. Akron Beacon Journal. Retrieved from https:// www.ohio.com/article/20171116/NEWS/311169621 Okubo, K., (Producer) & Thomas, T. (Director). (2010). Walt & El Grupo. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment. Orr, C. (2017, November 24). Coco is among Pixar’s best movies in years. The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/ archive/2017/11/coco-­is-­among-­pixars-­best-­movies-­in-­years/546695/ Piñón, J. (2011). Ugly Betty and the emergence of the Latina/o producers as cultural translators. Communication Theory, 21(4), 392–412. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1468-­2885.2011.01389.x. Reuben, E. (2017, December 2). Pixar’s tired formula is given new life in ‘Coco.’ The Ball State Daily News. Retrieved from https://www.ballstatedaily.com/ article/2017/12/pixars-­tired-­formula-­is-­given-­new-­life-­in-­coco Reyes, R. A. (2017, November 28). ‘Coco’ is the movie Latinos have been waiting for. CNN Wire. Retrieved from https://www.cnn.com/2017/11/28/opinions/movie-latinos-coco-reyes-opinion/index.html Riefe, J. (2017, November 3). How ‘Coco’ turned from controversial to respectful of Mexican culture. The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved from https:// www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/how-­c oco-­t urned-­c ontroversial-­ respectful-­mexican-­culture-­1053208

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Robinson, J. (2016, December 6). Pixar’s Coco is a “love letter to Mexico” in the age of Trump. Vanity Fair. Retrieved from https://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2016/12/pixar-­coco-­gael-­garcia-­bernal-­dia-­de-­los-­muertos-­miguel Roettgers, J. (2017, October 11). Pixar makes its virtual reality debut with ‘Coco VR’. Variety. Retrieved from https://variety.com/2017/digital/news/ pixar-­coco-­vr-­1202587504/ Rosenstiel, S. (2017, November 8). Pixar designer breathes life into “Coco” in Digitorium. The Northerner: Northern Kentucky University. Retrieved from https://www.thenortherner.com/arts-­and-­life/campus-­arts/2017/11/08/ pixar-­designer-­breathes-­life-­into-­coco-­in-­digitorium/ Santoro, S. (2017, November 3). Bringing the Land of the Dead to life: ‘Coco’ director Lee Unkrich talks filmmaking process at pre-release screening. The Panther. Retrieved from http://www.thepantheronline.com/news/ bringing-­land-­dead-­life-­coco-­director-­talks-­filmmaking-­process Sarup, A. (2017, November 16). ‘Digital puppets’ in Pixar’s ‘Coco’: An interview with Alonso Martinez. The Daily Californian. Retrieved from https://www. dailycal.org/2017/11/16/coco-­pixar-­alonso-­martinez-­interview/ Sims, D. (2019, March 21). Hollywood makes way for the Disney-Fox behemoth. The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/ archive/2019/03/disney-­fox-­merger-­and-­future-­hollywood/585481/ Tartaglione, N. (2015, August 17). ‘Rogue Nation’ revs up final $46M; ‘U.N.C.L.E.’ spies $12M bow, ‘Compton’ doubles estimate – Int’l box office update. Deadline. Retrieved from https://deadline.com/2015/08/ mission-­impossible-­rogue-­nation-­fantastic-­four-­brothers-­the-­man-­from-­uncle-­ international-­box-­office-­results-­1201499958/ Tartaglione, N. (2018a, February 4). ‘Coco’ reunites $700M at worldwide box office; 7th Pixar pic to milestone. Deadline. Retrieved from https://deadline.com/2018/02/coco-­c rosses-­7 00-­m illion-­w orldwide-­ box-­office-­1202277906/ Tartaglione, N. (2018b, May 1). ‘Coco’ sweet with $800M milestone at worldwide box office. Deadline. Retrieved from https://deadline.com/2018/05/ coco-­crosses-­800-­million-­global-­box-­office-­disney-­pixar-­1202380459/ Thomas, J. (2015, August 14). Plot and details revealed for Pixar’s Day of the Dead film. 411Mania. Retrieved from https://411mania.com/movies/ plot-­and-­details-­revealed-­for-­pixars-­day-­of-­the-­dead-­film/ Thompson, B. (2017, July 13). Pixar mines Mexico for film subject matter: Pixar finds unlikely inspiration in Mexico’s Day of the Dead. Windsor Star. Retrieved from https://www.pressreader.com/canada/ windsor-­star/20170713/281522226130480

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Ugwu, R. (2017, November 19). How Pixar made sure ‘Coco’ was culturally conscious. The New  York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes. com/2017/11/19/movies/coco-­pixar-­politics.html Unkrich, L., Molina, A., Aldrich, M., Katz, J., Anderson, D. K., García, B. G., & Gonzalez, A. (2018). Coco. Buena Vista Home Entertainment (Film). Vargas, A. S. (2015, August 18). Chicano cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz hired to make sure Pixar doesn’t screw up Dia de Muertos film ‘Coco.’ Remezcla. Retrieved from http://remezcla.com/film/chicano-­illustrator-­lalo-­alcaraz-­hired-­to-­ make-­sure-­pixar-­doesnt-­fuck-­up-­dia-­de-­muertos-­film-­coco/ Vaughn, J. (2017, November 5). Daniel Arriaga’s journey from the Academy of Arts to Disney Pixar’s “Coco.” The Daily Forty-Niner. Retrieved from https://daily49er.com/artslife/2017/11/05/daniel-­a rriagas-­j ourney­from-­the-­academy-­of-­arts-­to-­disney-­pixars-­coco/ Wasko, J. (2001). Understanding Disney: The manufacture of fantasy. Cambridge, UK/Malden, MA: Polity. Whan-woo, Y. (2018, January 14). Diplomatic missions prepare to go back to work. The Korea Times. Retrieved from http://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/ nation/2018/09/176_242398.html Whitington, P. (2018, January 21). Pixar’s winning way with death: Our film critic talks to Coco director Lee Unkrich about making the skeletal dead ‘cuddly.’ The Irish Independent. Retrieved from https://www.independent.ie/entertainment/movies/pixars-­winning-­way-­with-­death-­our-­film-­critic-­talks-­to-­coco-­ director-­lee-­unkrich-­about-­making-­the-­skeletal-­dead-­cuddly-­36505212.html Williams, A. (2016, July 20). 10 things you should know about Disney’s newest princess, ‘Elena of Avalor.’ ABC News. Retrieved September 29, 2016, from http://abcnews.go.com/Entertainment/10-­things-­disneys-­newest-­princess-­ elena-­avalor/story?id=40716449 Wright, D. (2005). Mediating production and consumption: Cultural capital and‘cultural workers.’ British Journal of Sociology, 56(1), 105–121. ­https:// doi-org.ezproxy.una.edu/10.1111/j.1468-4446.2005.00049.x

PART III

Audience Reflections and Responses

CHAPTER 9

Yvonne Orji’s Docuseries, First Gen: FirstGenerational Narratives and the Impact on Audiences’ Community Cultural Wealth David L. Stamps

Introduction Media representation is dynamic and evolving, and the influence of such depictions matters regarding viewers. To illustrate, literature posits that viewing favorable media portrayals is beneficial to audiences as material discourages stigmatization of the groups portrayed and prompts healthy self-perceptions among audiences of similar identities (McKinley et  al., 2014; Stamps, 2020a). Building on this notion, the following chapter draws focus toward first-generation American immigrants, not only as represented in media but as media consumers and content creators. Specifically, this chapter examines Yvonne Orji, a first-generation Nigerian producer, actress, comedienne, and writer’s docuseries, First Gen (2015–current), which  highlight narratives of first-generation American immigrant’s

D. L. Stamps (*) Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, LA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_9

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experiences in the United States. Within the series, individuals share stories, including confronting interracial and intercultural group differences and navigating perceptions of being framed as “other” in social spaces. To this end, the following chapter discusses media and its influence on viewers, offers an introduction to Orji’s docuseries, First Gen, followed by tenets from community cultural wealth (CCW; Yosso, 2005). CCW is adopted to examine media that not only elevates the narratives of first-­ generation American immigrants but also showcases how representation in Orji’s docuseries First Gen creates varied forms of cultural capital among viewers. This is followed by the methodology adopted to analyze First Gen including  over 350 user-generated online comments by viewers of the same material. Last, findings and implications are presented. Media’s Influence on Audiences Media messages communicate information about the behaviors, attitudes, beliefs, and norms of different groups in society (Mastro & Stamps, 2018). Unsurprisingly, these messages, when framed unfavorably, have wide-­ ranging implications on audiences, including intergroup conflict and negative impacts on the viewer’s perceptions of society (Mastro, 2009). However, when framed favorably, the media has the potential to positively influence viewers’ self-esteem, self-confidence, and individual aspirations (Stamps, 2020b). Likewise, counter-storytelling, such as reclaiming one’s narrative in media, allows groups to be centered and build community through shared identities and experiences (Ramasubramanian et  al., 2020). The opportunity for viewers to seek positive portrayals in media has arguably shifted as traditional media outlets (e.g., broadcast television) have become one of many opportunities for audiences to view content. Additional outlets, including streaming services (e.g., Hulu), subscription and pay-cable (e.g., HBO), and digital/social media (e.g., YouTube and Facebook Live), offer various opportunities for media consumption and exposure as well. Each of these media platforms has increased the opportunity for varied communities to produce content that may elevate varying identities (e.g., race, gender, sexuality, immigration status) and the lived experiences of groups that are often underrepresented (Stamps, 2020a). For example, Issa Rae, writer, producer, and actress, created the web series, Awkward Black Girl (2011–2013), and distributed it via her YouTube channel. The series featured underrepresented characters telling stories and showcasing

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narratives that personified racial minorities in general and African-American women specifically. Not only was the platform a launchpad for Rae’s Home Box Office (HBO) scripted series Insecure (2016–current) and her participation in films such as The Hate U Give (2018), the creation of Awkward Black Girl gave Rae autonomy (Rae, 2016). Rae coordinated, distributed, and managed the content, including other media-based projects, through her YouTube channel, each of which reflected identities unique to herself and her audience (Sherman, 2015). Non-traditional media platforms, such as YouTube, offer opportunities for portrayals of varied groups to be celebrated and centered in media, such as first-generation American immigrants. Likewise, they provide depictions that highlight groups’ intersectional identities, including those based on gender, race, and sexuality. To illustrate, The Shorty Awards, an annual awards ceremony honoring the best of digital media content, recognized media featuring narratives of LGBT American immigrants produced and distributed by the Human Rights Campaign (HRC). This work notably was circulated on social and digital media making such content accessible to its audience. This material underscored the day-to-day lives of individuals who are often erased from or minimized in society. This work by HRC, specifically available on non-traditional media, provided viewers a space to see themselves and their lives reflected on-screen. This example suggest  that immigrant portrayals in media, when present and accessible, may provide diverse representation and the potential to impact viewers when those same populations can tell their story. This chapter aims to support such claims, advocating that media created by and tailored toward first-generation American immigrants can contribute to the viewer’s self-perception in the form of acquired cultural capital. An examination of this type is appropriate as audiences actively view media produced and distributed through non-traditional platforms (i.e., streaming and digital services) and exercise greater autonomy with regard to creating, sharing, and interacting with media content (Ito et al., 2009). For many viewers, particularly immigrants and non-white audiences, non-traditional media outlets are among the few spaces where favorable media representation exists (Sun et al., 2015). Considering these realities, this chapter recognizes media content from a non-traditional platform created by and representing first-generation American immigrants. This examination posits that audiences often situated on the margins, when centered in media content, may view their identities and narratives as wide-ranging and multi-dimensional.

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This reality, highlighting the vibrant identities and experiences of first-­ generation American immigrants, is necessary. First-generation American immigrants’ distinctiveness includes examples of facing unique barriers that non-group members rarely confront. These include, but are not limited to, the migration experience, including arriving in a new country with social and personal cues that differ significantly. Other examples involve treatment by peers in social spaces such as educational environments. For instance, many first-generation American immigrants face hardship negotiating homelife and school or professional settings. The expectations and social cues between these competing worlds often render individuals stressed and perplexed as they attempt to embrace self-efficacy and accommodate people from both environments (Bondy et al., 2017). The expectation of achieving “The American Dream,” a notion of prosperity, success, and upward social mobility, is often expected of first-generation American immigrants. Yet, representation of the dialectic tension between preserving a cultural identity that is often counter to an assimilative existence in the United States is scarce in media. How does an individual decide what to wear, eat, and how to talk in social spaces that arguably vilify cultural and ethnic differences? Orji’s work, First Gen, ushers in a much-needed representative piece, acknowledging and addressing these queries. First Gen (2015–Current) Yvonne Orji is best known for her television character Molly Carter, in the Issa Rae and Larry Wilmore co-created and produced scripted series Insecure (2016–current). Orji was born in Nigeria, received a bachelor’s and master’s degree from George Washington University, and shifted her academic and professional goals toward pursuing comedy during a beauty pageant after performing stand-up for the first time (Davis, 2016). Orji’s breakout role in Insecure, created for and by Black people, introduces audiences to an unapologetic first-generation American immigrant and her work, the docuseries, First Gen builds on those multi-dimensional experiences. First Gen consists of straight-to-camera interviews from first-generation American immigrants. The individuals discuss their personal experiences with confronting cultural stereotypes, navigating interracial and intercultural group differences, and coping with feelings of isolation in social spaces (e.g., school). First Gen also includes short, comical interviews with individuals whose cultural knowledge is tested regarding subject matter,

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such as naming countries within Africa. Last, First Gen debuts a situational comedy pilot trailer centered on Orji and her family’s transition to and life in the United States. Each vignette in First Gen is available on YouTube. Viewers are able (and encouraged via the descriptions under each video) to leave comments related to the content. The conversations by first-generation American immigrants in First Gen, including by Orji, embrace varied understandings that resonate with audiences across the spectrum of identities, including, but not limited to, race, gender, sexuality, generational, and immigrant status. These narratives are also told from a non-white, first-generation American immigrant point-of-view, centering voices that are often erased within mass media. Within this work, it is recognized that Orji’s work, representing often-­ ostracized audiences and placing first-generation identities as a prominent feature of storytelling, creates and reinforces social and cultural capital for first-generation American immigrants (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). Considering this, the framework CCW is applied to demonstrate how affirmative media creates community, builds cultural capital, and offers audiences content that may increase self and group perceptions. Community Cultural Wealth Grounded in critical race and critical cultural theorizing, CCW considers the unique nature of historically oppressed and marginalized groups engaging in counter-storytelling and “naming one’s own reality” (Yosso, 2005, p.  72). Specifically, Yosso (2005) defines CCW as an inclusive framework acknowledging the “knowledge, skills, abilities and contacts possessed and utilized by communities of color to survive and resist macro and microforms of oppression” (p.  77). Yosso (2005) initially adopts CCW as a mechanism to challenge deficit interpretations of social and cultural capital in unequal schooling outcomes for racial minorities. However, the recent CCW application among qualitative and critical cultural scholars argues that favorable media depictions may also provide social and cultural capital to audiences (see Brooms & Davis, 2017; Stamps, 2020b). Yosso (2005) identifies six forms of capital within the CCW framework. These include linguistic capital (varied communication skills shared among a group), navigational capital (an individual’s ability to maneuver through social institutions), and resistance capital (the knowledge, skills, and thoughtful engagement that inform behaviors to resist subordination).

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The remaining three types of capital inform this analysis. These include aspirational capital (the ability to maintain hope and dreams for the future), social capital (an individual’s resources used to navigate societal issues), and familial capital (social networks to build community when facing oppression and marginalization). Community cultural wealth disentangles the notion that capital is solely associated with the accumulation of monetary wealth and class status (Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). In contrast, CCW focuses on cultural practices and individual experiences that enable individuals to negotiate and navigate social situations. These tools may be found within an array of settings, including exposure to and consumption of media (Brooms & Davis, 2017; Stamps, 2020b). First-generation American immigrants often exist at the intersection of immigration status, race, gender, and other identities. The distinctiveness of their lived experiences is complicated as each faces different forms of xenophobia, racism, sexism, classism, and other forms of discrimination in the United States. CCW offers a lens to examine how community members can reclaim personhood and experience favorable outcomes through viewing  representations of themselves in media, and ideally experience increases in well-being in the midst of dealing with prejudice. To illustrate, Stamps’ (2020b) research highlights several media depictions of minorities in scripted television that embody a spectrum of identities, including race, class, and sexuality. They argue that these media characters offer viewers the opportunity to broaden their self-perception, increase favorability toward their social group, and create the potential for increasing resistance, aspirational, and navigational capital. Katz (2010), while not explicitly applying CCW, posits that  immigrant adolescents’ media use, as a direction-finding tool, provides navigational and social capital for viewers to seek out health-related resources and build trust with community-based organizations. Contrary to deficit-oriented frameworks, which attempt to explain how media reinforces social stigmas and stereotypes among audiences, CCW illustrates how Orji’s docuseries, First Gen, provide social and cultural wealth for first-generation American immigrant audiences. By examining First Gen’s inspirational narratives, the chapter draws an association between media text and audiences’ potential to build and nurture aspirational, social, and familial capital. From this integrated perspective, the following research question(s) frame this examination. Within the docuseries First Gen, are

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representative  thematic narratives presented among first-generation American immigrants? Notably, within the first-person interviews, what stories are shared that  acknowledge the unique experiences of first-­ generation American immigrants? Second, how do viewers of the docuseries demonstrate cultural capital via their user-generated comments from the media vignettes presented in First Gen?

Method Building upon previous literature analyzing identities and dialectal engagement within mediated contexts, qualitative discourse analysis was conducted by a team of undergraduate research assistants and the author (Stamps, 2020b). Qualitative discourse analysis addresses the discursive properties of communicative engagement concerning the broader social structures and cultural practices (Cheek, 2004). First Gen provides an opportunity to increase the understanding of the human experience. In this particular instance, the experiences of first-generation American immigrants who, in the past, are disputably underrepresented within a substantial amount of media text and scholarship. Applying qualitative discourse analysis presents the rare occasion to consider the dual relationship between media subjects (i.e., those depicted within First Gen) and responses from audience members via user-generated comments. By examining the broader discourse and the agency displayed by audiences’ viewing of media content, we may better understand how audiences demonstrate CCW. Data Procedures Four undergraduate research assistants participated in four, one-hour training sessions on thematic coding. The coding process included analyzing media text, identifying salient themes within the content, returning as a group, and collectively re-examining that data. The research team received physical and digital copies of the user-generated comments, digital links to the First Gen media content, and physical materials (e.g., writing utensils and note pads). Research assistants were encouraged to reread and revisit all data as needed and retain all notes during the coding process. For the analysis, each vignette was watched with enough repetition to conduct an in-depth examination, including explication of the verbal discourse, transcription of the text, and concentrated attention toward

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implicit and explicit messages that illustrate the experiences of first-­ generation American immigrants. This method is in line with existing research that examine media content that may influence audiences’ impression formation, judgment, and attitudes (Williams & Korn, 2017). Once the researcher team completed their analysis, data were analyzed collectively, and consistent themes were discussed and clustered together with supporting quotes from media vignettes. The analysis of user-generated comments was conducted using Yosso’s (2005) descriptions of CCW.  The research team categorized each comment (when applicable), filing them within one (or more) of the types of cultural capital (e.g., aspirational capital, social capital, and familial capital). After performing initial coding, the research team collectively clustered the comments into appropriate types of capital. Open discussion of where each comment would best support a particular type of cultural capital occurred until an agreement was met among the research team (see Stamps, 2018). Media Content  Media content available on the First Gen YouTube page included six media vignettes and the pilot trailer. With roughly twenty minutes and thirty-four seconds of footage, First Gen defines, through narratives, what it means for first-generation American immigrants to be “othered” in various spaces in the United States. The series also highlights the unfamiliarity that many individuals experienced with varied cultural and socialization practices. Each media vignette is available on YouTube, and the episodes available date back to February 4, 2015. User-Generated Comments A portion of data for the current chapter included user-­generated comments posted below the First Gen media vignettes. Published comments appeared between 2015 and 2019. At the time of data collection, 354 comments were available, and authors of those comments used either  an alias (e.g., “smartaleck05”) or their full name, and either was displayed above the comment. Within the sample of quotes referenced, only first names or alias are used to encourage anonymity. Individuals could comment on the First Gen media vignettes and reply to previous comments from other users. Both original comments and replies to original comments were analyzed. Not all individuals who posted comments on the First Gen YouTube page explicitly state that they identify are first-generation American immigrants. However, comments such as “Finally! As a first-generation Nigerian-American, I want to see something LIKE THIS!” provide evidence that a considerable number of

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viewers identify as first-generation American immigrants. Thus, all usergenerated comments were included in the analysis.



Findings Analysis from Media Content

Upon examination of the First Gen media vignettes, two overarching themes emerged: how mass media often presents white narratives as normative, and the personal feeling of being “othered” as a first-generation American immigrant in various social spaces. On-camera participants discussed how mainstream American television typically normalizes white individuals’  storylines and socialization practices. These depictions are often representative of whiteness and contradicted the cultural exercises of many first-generation American immigrant families. One Asian American interviewee shared, “I was ‘shanghaied’ by [the TV show] Full House (1987–1995) because they [the characters] talked about anything and I thought I could do that too … but it’s not true.” This participant further reveals that within her family, discussing private matters and taking part in public activities that may be viewed as shameful, are considered improper. For this participant, the storylines presented in Full House created a myth that people are generally extroverted, individualistic, and blatantly direct regarding communication with family members. These misnomers were among the first opportunities where the interviewee witnessed their culture and cultural practices minimized or erased. The media depictions presented in the series Full House symbolically erased the participants’ high-context cultural dynamics and social norms, presenting a falsehood regarding how various families communicate (see Franklin, 1987). In another example, an Indian-American interviewee discussed an occasion when their cultural identity was disparaged within a social setting: In the sixth grade, there was this class assignment where everyone had to bring a recipe from home, a potluck lunch, and everyone was bringing in their mom’s favorite recipe that they usually eat at home, and I was the only one that had ethnic food. I was the only one that went home [at the end of the day] with a completely full tray. No one tried anything, not even a bite; everyone was super weirded out by it.

The participant later in the video shares that eating ethnic cuisine is trendy now but admits that growing up, consuming ethnic cuisine in public could feel isolating. This remark demonstrates how someone could feel

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“othered” by identifying their cultural cuisine as “weird” due to an explicit distinction between her and her peers’ identity. Likewise, the lack of acknowledging diverse cuisine within an activity, such as a school potluck, meant to represent differences and inclusion, was a failure. These examples illustrates the potential for media narratives presented outside of a white, non-immigrant racial frame to normalize immigrant cultures’ particular aesthetics. As Stamps (2019) notes, television programs such as Jane The Virgin (2014–2019) and Fresh Off the Boat (2015–2020) highlight immigrant identities and cultural representations including those associated with cultural cuisine and coming of age celebrations (e.g., quinceañeras) and holidays (e.g., Chinese New Year). Although  Stamps stops short of implying favorable outcomes among viewers witnessing their identities and cultural representations on-screen, the application of CCW, as previous research asserts, may demonstrate the potential for such findings. Another interviewee, an Asian first-generation immigrant, mimicked this same sentiment, sharing the following: There are white people everywhere; then there is me, I’m brown, short, black hair, and the Asian girl. Even though I tried to whitewash myself, had the Abercrombie, had the chains, I was like a skater girl … and it didn’t work. No matter how much you try to assimilate, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter.

For this impressionable first-generation American immigrant, they did not see their identity within social spaces. They responded by attempting to assimilate to a white or “Americanized” culture, and unfortunately, this action did not render a favorable outcome. To this interviewee, the enactment of whiteness was a performance, and the clothes and mannerisms did not detract from their cultural and ethnic appearance. The docuseries highlights the contrast of participants’ first-generation American immigrant identities, American social practices, and how their uniqueness (e.g., cuisine and visual appearance) is considered foreign and viewed as non-normative among peers. This sentiment was also recapped by a first-generation Indian-Spanish male stating: “I think if you don’t fit the certain mold that people expect of you, they kind of diminish your legitimacy, you’re not ethnic enough, Black enough, you are not enough.” The data derived from the First Gen media vignettes present the opportunity to examine first-generation American immigrant narratives. While

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representative of some experiences, these interviewees show how individuals navigate a social and cultural space that often did not wholly represent their cultural identities. The narratives suggest a consistent through-line that non-white, first-generation American immigrants may feel “othered” and often have to confront this in various spaces, including educational settings, and different stages of their lives, from adolescence into adulthood. The distribution of First Gen on the digital media platform YouTube provides an opportunity to investigate the direct responses from audiences via their comments in response to  the content. First Gen offers a community-­building component as viewers can witness their own identities and lived experiences presented on the platform and engage in discussions via the digital platform. These comments show the potential for audience members to acquire social and cultural capital by viewing first-­ generation American immigrants’ representations in the docuseries. Aspirational Capital Building on previous work applying CCW, several forms of cultural capital emerged from the examination of audience comments, for example, aspirational capital, which is the ability to maintain and sustain optimism and positivity in the future. This type of cultural capital is best engrossed through cultural lessons and shared advice. Within the data, audiences acknowledge the on-camera interviewees’ pursuits and how these shared narratives influenced their ambitions as first-generation American immigrants. An example of this is shown in a comment by Shauna: My sister and I are both first-generation, and I can so relate to this [First Gen]. I, too, am a very artistic person, and having a mother from South America, who sacrificed greatly for us to be here certainly didn’t allow for me to feel 100% confident going forward with my gifting … but I will prevail!

Shauna shows her appreciation for her mother’s sacrifice migrating to the United States. However, Shauna admits how her aspirations may not align with her mother’s sacrifice. She recognized her first-generation American immigrant identity, her future aspirations, and the possibility for both to co-exist. More importantly, she felt compelled to openly discuss, via the comment section, the tension that exists, and her determination to succeed in her endeavors.

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Viewers shared how they were inspired and found the material in First Gen to be relatable and applicable to their identities. Likewise, audience members recognized how this content could be a catalyst for pursuing individual goals. As the commentor Mossogbe stated on the platform, “I can definitely relate, we need [content] like this, thank you so much for pursuing your dreams … and showing that I can pursue mine,” and Angela also shared, “The accuracy of this!! This is my life story. I’m in that dilemma as we speak [pursuing one’s dreams] and trying to figure out where to go next.” Each of these comments speaks to the potential for media representing first-generation American immigrants’ narratives to provide CCW for audiences with shared backgrounds and similar aspirations. Interestingly, many first-generation American immigrants discussed the tension between embracing the “American Dream,” their cultural heritage, and the commitment to family members and parents’ sacrifice to immigrate to the United States to have access to different opportunities. To illustrate, Joanna’s comments capture this, recognizing her parent’s intentions (as well as a jovial connection to one of the individuals speaking on camera, as they have the same name). She stated, “My name is Joanna, too, and I am a First Gen Jamaican-American. I relate to this so much. I know parents don’t want anything bad for us—they want the best [for us], and these videos ring so true.” Social Capital Social capital is recognized as the acquired network of contacts and resources that individuals rely on to navigate society. Audience members demonstrate various forms of social capital. For example, individuals lean on networks, including friends, because of their shared experiences, noting that First Gen prompted timely conversation. Linda shares her experience from viewing First Gen and how it resonates within her social circle as she and her friends navigate majority-white spaces. I am first-gen Jamaican, and most of my friends growing up were first-gen of some other country/nation/continent/ethnicity (Yugoslavian, Persian, Italian, Argentinian). I think that was because we indeed had similar ­experiences. Being first-gen also gives you a dual-layer of Edward Said’s concept of “The Other” because, as a first-gen, you are othered in so many

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different areas—growing [up] alienated from the culture at home, [and] being visibly or audibly othered among the dominant culture.

Linda acknowledged the significance of social circles where similar lived experiences and shared points-of-view take place in safe spaces. She includes how the harsh reality of being American and a first-generation immigrant may create conflict at home as family members may not understand American social cues. Linda shared how confronting a Eurocentric society, which creates and sustains “otherness” among those who are not visibly part of white identity, can feel isolating. This dichotomy is unique to first-generation American immigrants, and the narratives represented in media create a space for viewers to see their personal experiences reflected on-screen. Viewers note how messages presented in First Gen unapologetically discuss what it means to be othered by non-immigrants in the United States. These same audiences mention conflict among family members due to familial expectations that often diverge from notion of success or identity. In some scenarios, these themes are apparent for audiences who may not be first-generation American immigrants. For example, “kemicutie” discusses how First Gen’s content relates to her life, This is pretty much my life, except my mother is Black American. You can only imagine the disappointment … now at almost 39, I’m a stay-at-home mom. You can imagine the conversation my parents had with me about that choice. Oh yeah, and my husband is white. It was a big deal when my husband tried to call my parents by their first name. You know the rest. This totally speaks to me and shows me that I am not alone in figuring out how to deal with it.

As both an emotional and communal resource, social capital was revealed within comments and demonstrated how audiences face barriers, including within their homes. Viewers may look to media as a resource or respite in the form of social capital, using such text to engage in dialogue about navigating societal issues, including marrying outside of one’s culture and seeking social support from friends.

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Familial Capital Familial capital signifies the creation of communal space with like-minded individuals, including, but not limited to, family, friends, and other individuals of a shared identity. This form of capital advances cultural knowledge, employing narratives and storytelling by individuals that possess shared identities. Familial capital provides a sense of community history while also engaging in a commitment to community well-being. Within First Gen, audiences identify the narratives that resemble kinship, which also offer lessons of coping. Stella demonstrates this as she witnesses generational representation discussed within the media vignettes, and how they resemble her relationship with her mother and daughter. She underscores the significance of her cultural identity and her attempts to introduce those to her child in  various social spaces. Stella also realizes the duplicity as she has to explain her whereabouts to her mother when her personal choices clash with her mother’s cultural beliefs. As a daughter and a mother, I am both Agatha and Joana [interviewees from the First Gen media vignettes]. I am guilty of shoving samosa snacks into my child’s lunch box, all the while trying to come up with a way to explain to my mother where I spend my Monday evenings—in an improv class in the basement of a Synagogue! This show [First Gen] is worth my support!

Stella identifies the tension of navigating an American immigrant identity. She wants her daughter to embrace their culture. Yet, her personal decisions seem to contradict her desire to respect her mother’s expectations, acknowledging her actions as potentially derailing that goal. Stella reflects on the intricate nature of her existence as a first-generation American immigrant and the reality of navigating complicated relationships. Stella saw her actions (sending her daughter to school with ethnic snacks) as intentional, and while not the norm, was meant to celebrate her family’s cultural identity. Stella also saw her own choice to downplay or discredit her ambitions because they may not align with her mother’s expectations. The richness of her existence as a first-generation American immigrant was made visible in First Gen, and she saw herself represented in those narratives. For many first-generation American immigrants, there exists a unique path navigating a society that often seeks to erase or whitewash non-­ Eurocentric cultural identities, encouraging first-generation American

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immigrants to assimilate. Likewise, many individuals wish to respect their family’s sacrifice and hold on to their cultural practices and traditions. The docuseries, First Gen, illustrates this intricate existence and, for first-­ generation American immigrants, provides a space for audiences to build community, seek social support, and learn to navigate structures that often minimize their identities and social norms.

Concluding Thoughts First-generation American immigrant media representation offers viewers the opportunity to see themselves and their day-to-day lives reflected on-­ screen. Orji, as creator and producer, offers her experiences and her success as examples of cultural capital for first-generation American immigrants and general audiences alike. Orji proudly shares in her 2020 HBO stand­up special, “Momma, I Made It,” how her mother, who once wanted her to become a medical doctor, now asks people, “Have you heard of HBO? Home Box Office. Yes. That’s where my daughter is.” Orji states that her mother celebrates her daughter’s success as an actress, producer, and comedienne. Likewise, Orji’s road to success as a first-generation American immigrant is colorful, celebratory, and, more importantly, as seen in her journey presented in media, possible. Media is a space to witness such stories and, more importantly, inspire others to embrace their identity. As CCW recognizes, media representation matters, and communities that are often relegated to the margins, including first-generation American immigrants, utilize various spaces, including media, to build cultural capital to create community and thrive in society. First Gen’s creator, Yvonne Orji (2015), shares with her audience, who have viewed the First Gen media vignettes over 40,000 times, “We’re in this great country [America] that affords us the ability to do other things, [and] for us to have the ‘American dream’ and part of that is incorporating America into our dreams.”

References Bondy, J. M., Peguero, A. A., & Johnson, B. E. (2017). The children of immigrants’ academic self-efficacy: The significance of gender, race, ethnicity, and segmented assimilation. Education and Urban Society, 49(5), 486–517. https://doi.org/10.1177/0013124516644049.

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Brooms, D. R., & Davis, A. R. (2017). Exploring Black males’ community cultural wealth and college aspirations. Spectrum: A Journal on Black Men, 6, 33–58. Cheek, J. (2004). At the margins? Discourse analysis and qualitative research. Qualitative Health Research, 14, 1140–1150. Davis, A. (2016, October 10). Molly from ‘Insecure’ is your new favorite single lady. The Ringer. https://www.theringer.com/2016/10/10/16041734/ yvonne-­orji-­interview-­insecure-­904c39efe72#.xj298jdn9 Franklin, J. (1987). Full House [television series]. Burbank, CA: Warner Brothers Studio. Ito, M., Baumer, S., Bittaniti, M., Cody, R., Stephenson, B., Horst, H., Lange, P., Mahendran, D., Martinez, K., Pascoe, C., Perkel, D., Robinson, C., & Tripp, L. (2009). Hanging out, messing around, and geeking out: Kids living and learning with new media. MIT Press. Katz, V. S. (2010). How children of immigrants use media to connect their families to the community: The case of Latinos in South Los Angeles. Journal of Children and Media, 4, 298–315. Mastro, D. (2009). Effects of racial and ethnic stereotyping. In J.  Bryant & M.  B. Oliver (Eds.), Media effects: Advances in theory and research (3rd ed., pp. 325–341). Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum Assoc. Mastro, D., & Stamps, D. (2018). Depictions of race/ethnicity in the media and the implications of exposure on ingroup and outgroup audiences. In P. Napoli (Ed.), Mediated communication: Handbook of communication science (pp. 341–358). de Gruyter Mouton Press. https://doi.org/10.1515/9783110481129-018. McKinley, C. J., Masto, D., & Warber, K. M. (2014). Social identity theory as a framework for understanding the effects of exposure to positive media images of self and other on intergroup outcomes. International Journal of Communication, 8, 1049–1068. Orji, Y. (2015, February 4). First Gen DocuSeries Ep. 1 [video file]. Retrieved from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKV4HtxfkK0 Rae, I. (2016). Insecure [television series]. Los Angeles, CA: 3 Arts Entertainment. Ramasubramanian, S., Winfield, A., & Riewestahl, E. (2020). Positive stereotypes and counter-stereotypes: Examining their effects on prejudice reduction and favorable intergroup relations. Oak Trust Publishing. Sherman, S. (2015). Issa Rae, Making the black experience relatable. The North Dallas Gazette. https://northdallasgazette.com/wp-­content/ uploads/2015/03/FINAL-­NDG03122015.pdf Solórzano, D.  G., & Yosso, T.  J. (2002). Critical race methodology: Counter-­ storytelling as an analytical framework for education research. Qualitative Inquiry, 8, 23–44. Stamps, D. (2018). Will boys be boys: An exploration of social support, affection, and masculinities within non-romantic male relationships. Kentucky Journal of Communication, 37, 52–71.

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Stamps, D. (2019). Is it really representation? A qualitative analysis of Asian and Latino characterizations in broadcast television. American Communication Journal, 21, 1–12. Stamps, D. (2020a). Race and media: A critical essay acknowledging the current state of race-related media effects research and directions for future exploration. Howard Journal of Communications, 31(2), 121–136. https://doi.org/ 10.1080/10646175.2020.1714513 Stamps, D. (2020b). B(l)ack by popular demand: An analysis of positive media exemplars of black masculinity in television and audiences’ community cultural wealth. Journal of Communication Inquiry, 45(2). 97–118 https://doi.org/ 10.1177/0196859920924388. Sun, C., Liberman, R., Butler, A., Lee, S., & Webb, R. (2015). Shifting receptions: Asian American stereotypes and the exploration of comprehensive media literacy. The Communication Review, 18, 294–314. Williams, M. G., & Korn, J. (2017). Othering and fear: Cultural values and Hiro’s race in Thomas & Friends’ Hero of the Rails. Journal of Communication Inquiry, 41, 22–41. Yosso, T. J. (2005). Whose culture has capital? A critical race theory discussion of community cultural wealth. Race Ethnicity and Education, 8, 69–91.

CHAPTER 10

Am I an All-American Girl? An Autocritography of Ethnicity, Gender, and Acculturation via Margaret Cho’s All-­ American Girl (1994–1995) Charisse L’Pree Corsbie-Massay As a child, I always felt like my family was strange. I grew up in White Plains, NY, a (racial, religious, socioeconomic) diverse urban suburb of New York City, but my family didn’t look like my friends’ families or the families that I saw on television, which featured a mother, a father, and siblings. I was an only child raised by my single mother and grandmother, both of whom were born in Guyana, and I was the only American-born citizen in our intergenerational triumvirate. I felt more American than Guyanese and perpetually in conflict with my mother and grandmother’s Guyanese-ness. With more education, I would come to learn that this conflict was commonplace among the children of immigrants (Elias & Lemish, 2008; Ghirab, 2019; Gigi Durham, 2004), but in middle and high school, I only felt like an anomaly hoping to one day become “normal.”

C. L. Corsbie-Massay (*) Syracuse University, Syracuse, NY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_10

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This perceived isolation ended on September 14, 1994, exactly 19 days before my thirteenth birthday and the week before my first period, when Margaret Cho’s All-American Girl (AAG) debuted on ABC. For the first time on television, I saw three generations of women living together in one house representing different levels of American acculturation. I was awestruck and excited. Although there were also three men in this family, the show consistently focused on the relationship between the three women—specifically the cultural conflicts between mothers and daughters—and I began to realize that my situation was not unique. I was familiar with Margaret Cho and her stand-up routines before the program launched. Although we weren’t of Korean descent, I laughed at her jokes lampooning her unacculturated family as a first-generation American. AAG literally fleshed her jokes, and put them into a home that resembled mine. Like Grandma  Kim (played by Amy Hill), my grandmother (played by Elaine) was of Chinese descent, born and raised outside the United States, and embraced religious and cultural traditions of the old country; she was deeply amused by American customs, and inseparable from her television and American soap operas. Like Katherine (played by Jodi Long), my mother (played by Dianne) was also born and raised outside the United States and immigrated to America at 20 for college; she was connected to her home country but attempted to assimilate and advance in the American system; she worked hard to succeed in life and demanded I do the same.1 I was the Margaret Kim (played by Margaret Cho) of the group, technically an Afro2-Sino-Caribbean-American girl, born and raised in the United States and eager to be American, even if my understanding of American womanhood was defined by television. The show was highly anticipated given Cho’s success as a stand-up comedian, but it failed with both general (read: white) audiences and ethnic audiences, and barely lasted a full season (19 episodes to be exact). In its wake and in the decades since, many scholars have described the issues with the program and the representation of Korean-Americans and AsianAmericans especially as the only instance of this group in mainstream media at the time. Many have argued that the show  whitewashed and homogenized the nuanced story of a Korean-American family in order to cater to the stereotypical assumptions of a majority white American 1  I learned of the term “tiger mom” with Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother (2011), but it was perfect term for her parenting style. 2  By way of my biological father who was largely absent from my life.

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audience. Several scholars and critics also  excoriated the program for actively reinforcing stereotypes, including the perpetual foreigner and Asian women as submissive. Cho herself has repeatedly said that she acquiesced significant creative control thus distancing the final product from her original vision (Cho, 2002). I was not sensitized to these issues at the time. As a naïve 13-yearold, I didn’t realize the implications of what it meant to have an Asian woman leading a prime time sitcom on a television network or the role of stereotypes in the construction of personal and national identity, but the show resonated with me as a second-generation American (or a firstborn American), especially given that conversations about the intergenerational American experience was largely absent from media. However, I have not seen an analysis of AAG that addresses how the show represented the experience of intergenerational womanhood and American acculturation. In their critique of AAG, Sarah Moon Cassinelli argues that the title of the show, “All-American Girl, is just as unproductive as if it had been named ‘Asian Girl Trying To Be American on TV’” (2008, 135), but this is what resonated with me the most. The show itself hinged on the juxtaposition of Margaret Kim’s (all) American-ness compared to prior generations’—specifically her mother’s and grandmother’s—lack of American-ness, effectively synthesizing my own experiences despite not identifying as Korean-American or Asian-American. At every turn, Margaret Kim’s understanding of American-ness was twofold: in juxtaposition to her Korean family and defined by television. The second part was made obvious through a stream of pop culture references peppered throughout the series, many of which were unoriginal and uninspired but that I read as a wink and a nod to my own televisual upbringing. Furthermore, this moment of televisual representation impacted how I think about media, psychology, and American identity in general. Despite the show’s flaws, AAG foregrounded an image of American life that had not been featured on television: a multigenerational family struggling with acculturation and achieving the American Dream told from the perspective of Margaret Kim, a first-generation American woman. She was me; more importantly, she navigated issues that were unaddressed in other mainstream programming of the time: growing up both American and not American and trying to be American in a home that didn’t seem to  understand and actively criticized American behavioral norms, especially for women.

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The technique of autocritography seems most apt to analyze the impact of this program on my own development as a media scholar, as a first-­ generation American woman, and as my mother’s daughter and my grandmother’s granddaughter. Defined by Michael Awkward in his memoir, Scenes of Instruction, which documents the racialization of and discrimination within the academy alongside his own personal experiences, an autocritography is, “an account of individual, social, and institutional conditions that help to produce a scholar and, hence, his or her professional concerns” (1999, 7). Since then, several scholars have adopted this approach, which is unabashedly both personal and critical, and invites the scholar (and the reader) to consider more deeply how they are impacted by their academic study. In this tradition, the current essay addresses (1) how AAG normalized the intergenerational relationship between women at different stages of acculturation, (2) the insights AAG—and by extension, Margaret Cho—offered to first-generation American women in the mid-1990s, and (3) how my own experiences as a first-generation American woman led me to a nuanced reading of the show, a lens that has largely been ignored by media scholars to date.

The Kim Women and Generational Levels of American Womanhood The pilot episode, “Mom, Dad, This Is Kyle,” opens with the Kim family sitting around the dinner table. The father, Benny, looks frustrated and resigned as he glances at his watch; the mother, Katherine, is exasperated but stoic; the youngest son, Eric, cuts the tension by throwing up his hands and delivering the first line of the series in an all-American accent: “I’m going to start.” He is quickly corrected by his mother in proper but accented American English, “Eric, you will eat when all members of the family are present.” The grandmother, Grandma, interjects with a brief but rambling story of the “old country” before the oldest son, Stuart, dressed in a suit and tie, stands up from the table and announces—also in an all-American accent—that he will go check on his sister. Like Eric, Stuart is sharply reprimanded by his mother to which he quickly apologizes: “I’m sorry everyone. I’m afraid I let my tummy take precedence over tradition.” Both Benny and Eric respond by rolling their eyes at Stuart’s perfect son routine.

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Margaret then descends the stairs “in a ripped denim jacket and feathered bangs, while talking like a Valley Girl on a Zack Morris-style cordless phone” (Woo, 2014). When she realizes that her family is waiting on her, she awkwardly ends the conversation about her date plans for the night— attending a movie called Psycho Sluts from Hell at the Plex—and sits at the table. From this first moment, Margaret is situated in opposition to her family: whereas the family is engaging in “traditional” expectations of a family dinner, Margaret arrives late, dressed punk-styled for a date, and actively disconnected from the home environment. Instead of being aware of the family, she is yammering loudly on the phone to her friend as she moves freely through the house. Although this trope—a young woman gossiping on the phone with her friends—was a common American cliché in the ‘80s and ‘90s, it is actively seen as disrespectful, dismissive, and an affront to “tradition” in this setting. To those familiar with the stand-up work of Cho, this character seems satirical; too on-the-nose, trying too hard, in short, too American. But at the same time, it situates Margaret Kim as desperately American, unquestioningly embodying a single city girl archetype, a narrative trope that emerged in response to the feminist movements of the twentieth century. She is an “emerging adult, learning to be independent and intimate… [who] faces the future with humor and self-deprecating awareness” (L’Pree, 2017). This independent streak of Margaret is contrasted sharply with her mother, Katherine, in this opening scene. As they begin discussing her plans for the evening, Margaret reveals that she is going on a date with Kyle, a young white American who works as an auto mechanic, much to her mother’s dismay. Katherine: Kyle? You’re not still seeing him? Oh, I don’t like him… He’s wrong for you. Margaret: Why is he wrong for me? And I hope you have something better than ‘He’s not Korean.’ Katherine: I do. He’s American. Margaret: Well, I’ve got news for you mom. I’m American! It is common for parents to dislike the people that their children date, and for children to date people that their parents dislike; however, Katherine not only despises Kyle (and as we come to learn, all of Margaret’s boyfriends) because he is American, but also despises Margaret for doing

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things that are considered quintessentially American (e.g., dating, moving out of the house). In contrast to other popular family-based sitcoms of the time (e.g., The Cosby Show (1984–1992), Growing Pains (1985–1992), The Wonder Years (1988–1993), Roseanne (1988–1997*), Married with Children (1987–1997)3) where all family members were American and intergenerational conflicts were still intracultural, American-ness was no longer the default in AAG; instead, it became the fulcrum on which generations clash and intergenerational arguments became intersectional, as evidenced in the above dialogue. Finally, Grandma Kim anchors this family as its most unassimilated member, a double-edged sword that reinforces orientalist and ageist stereotypes while disrupting American norms by offering an outsider lens to demonstrate the absurdities of American behaviors and culture. Simply referred to as “Grandma” or “Halmeoni” (Grandma in Korean), she is an absentminded senior with a bad back and a dirty mind (the pilot episode ends with the audience watching Grandma watching pornography—Free Your Willie “It’s good!”), who constantly shares stories of the ancestors and traditions in the “old country.” She is a comic observer who, as the matriarch, is a constant presence (much like the cultural history of the family itself), providing context and the Korean anchor in the acculturation spectrum. Grandma’s relationships with television are a constant reminder of how we consume American culture, especially for those who were not raised in it: in episode 2, “Submission: Impossible,” Grandma deteriorates when the television goes out. These three women represent more than intergenerational strife, their conflict comes from different levels of assimilation and different understandings of the gendered American Dream, or what is uniquely possible for women by being within the United States. Katherine, the first to immigrate and reside in the United States but who refuses to fully assimilate, embodies the immigrant discourse of America as the land of opportunity and is presented as a Korean girl in America who dreams of success for the next generation. Grandma, who immigrates to America after Katherine and Benny have established a home solely to be with her family, is actively unassimilated and brings a life lived in Korea, effectively retiring to the States free from any expectations of what she should be or accomplish. 3  One notable exception was Who’s the Boss (1984–1992), which featured a surrogate father in Tony Danza who delivered a surrogate daughter to complete three generations of women living together.

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Finally, Margaret (Kim), who comes of age in America and whose identity is built on the popular culture of her home country, attempts to be the American woman that is valorized in movies and television, separate from her Korean-ness. However, Margaret’s endeavors to achieve this status are repeatedly stymied by the traditional expectations of her family, an experience that is all too familiar among first-generation women. We are expected to excel in our chosen careers, yet we are also encouraged to stay in the safety of the home until we begin to form a family of our own. The physical and temporal independence expected of the all-American single city girl—that is, the life lived between leaving one’s family and starting one’s own family that has become the focus of television shows and movies—is actively discouraged in many traditional cultures for women. In a 2004  study, ten years after the premiere of AAG, Meenakshi Gigi Durham finds that first-­ generation Indian-American women did not feel included by their parents’ Indian-ness or the American culture in which they were raised and to which they possessed citizenship (2004). But true to form as a stand-up comedian, this shortcoming drives the series as Margaret seeks to escape the bounds of her family, only to return home. In the end, Margaret Kim cannot achieve the independence that was normalized through the single city girl narrative, but instead showcases a novel path to young American womanhood that normalizes and integrates intergenerational strife to develop a new understanding of what it means to be “American.” Margaret Cho showed first-gen American women that we were not alone in navigating our lives and our families despite the fact that we were largely absent from the media discourse in the mid-1990s. In doing so, Margaret Kim became a role model for me, not just because I wanted to do what she did, but rather, I wanted to be able to handle the intercultural conflict in my family with a joke and a smile.

Navigating Education and Career As a child, school was the most important thing. My mother referred to school as my “job” and I was expected to excel in all classes. Receiving a B would result in being grounded or some other social punishment (e.g., being forbidden from going to a party). Although this may seem common, her emphasis on school and academics was severe. I attended Kumon classes after school and spent summers completing math workbooks;

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again, my friends—and by extension, I—found this to be unfair when my peers spent their summers at camp with friends or playing video games. When I earned a 92/100 on the New York State Regents math exam— which my teacher told my mother was the lowest grade in my honors class—I was required to see a tutor and take the exam again over the summer, earning a 98; ultimately spending hours and hundreds of dollars for six additional points. I spent summers at college nerd camps for high school students. Education was paramount and anything that obstructed this path was a waste of time, including traditional summer camp and sleepovers. Katherine also stressed education, often at the expense of Margaret’s happiness. Margaret was expected to excel at a respectable career and is often juxtaposed with her brother Stuart, a successful cardiologist. However, in the first episode, we meet Margaret working at a department store beauty counter where she and her best friends Ruthie and Gloria— two white American women—gossip about life, love, and the other employees. Margaret aspires to bigger things—acknowledging that imploring people to try perfume is degrading—even if she doesn’t know what those bigger things are. Throughout the series, Margaret tries on different careers, some that meet her mother’s approval, and some that do not. In each of these episodes, Margaret is revealed to be smart, savvy, and skilled at the sampled profession, but these endeavors ultimately fail, often because of the associated generational conflict. In episode 8, “Take My Family, Please,” Margaret performs impromptu stand-up at a local karaoke night. The jokes at her family’s expense are a hit and she is invited to perform again, but when her parents inadvertently catch her act—along with their judgmental long-time family friends, who are also Korean—Margaret becomes an embarrassment to her family, “dishonors” her parents, and ultimately abandons her budding career as a comedian. In episode 9 “Exile on Market Street,” (E9), Margaret is studying for the Law School Admissions Test (LSAT)—to the delight of her mother, Katherine—but ends up in jail when a study break at a nightclub results in an altercation with the doorman. Grandma ends up in the same cell when she comes to bail out Margaret and the two women discuss life, work, and happiness, leading Margaret to realize that she wants a creative career, a decision that inevitably invokes Katherine’s wrath. If the nuances of these episodes are lost on the audience, the intergenerational conflict regarding career paths is made plain in episode 17, “A Night at the Oprah,” where it is revealed that Margaret has an exceptional

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talent for managing a rock band and is invited to go on tour, which would require her to drop out of college. Margaret reveals this dilemma to her mother while all three women are at a live taping of The Oprah Winfrey Show, turning their family drawma into the focus of the show as Oprah and her audience unpack the seemingly conflicting expectations of opportunity, education, and realizing one’s dreams. Whereas Grandma’s dream was “to come to America and live with my family,” Katherine (and Benny) came to America “so our children could get a good education.” For Margaret, the dream is to be happy and satisfied in her profession. The evolution of American dreams between generations is evident, from familial happiness to professional success to personal satisfaction, but the latter can be considered an insult if it does not include getting a good education. When I started at MIT as a 16-year-old freshman with the intention of becoming a geneticist, my mother was incredibly happy. As the first year progressed, and I partied too hard, it became evident that this pursuit may not have been the best plan for me at that point in my life. I was more concerned with being away from home and living a single city girl life even though I was not in any position to actually be independent.4 I dropped out of MIT and returned home with no plan or direction, much to my mother’s dismay. I spent months watching television, smoking weed, and waiting, hoping that my path would make itself known to me without any real effort. After months of living in limbo under my mother’s judgmental eye and my grandmother’s desperate attempts to resolve this intergenerational strife, I proposed to my mother that I return to MIT to study media. My mother said that she was not paying for MIT for me to major in media. She worked hard to become a successful accountant and it was expected that I would build on those accomplishments. I ultimately earned two degrees in cognitive science and media studies, which excited my mother because I was able to get two degrees for the price of one.

Navigating Love and Relationships I was not allowed to date; it was antithetical to a good education. I wasn’t even allowed to talk to boys. A male classmate called the house after dinner one night with a homework question and my mother accused me of trying to date behind her back. It wasn’t an unreasonable accusation; I 4  At 16, Margaret Cho was partied with friends and was expelled from the gifted high school in which she was enrolled.

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was. All my friends were “going out”; that is, they were coupled even if they didn’t go on dates outside of school. In eighth grade, a classmate asked me to “go out” and I agreed but I couldn’t tell my mother. Instead, I arranged a group date to the movies along with a small group of friends, all of whom were “going out with” other people. My mother grounded me when she found out. In tenth grade, I was “going out” with another boy—we would hold hands in school and at the ice rink on Fridays— again, my mother grounded me when she found out. In eleventh grade, my mother refused to let me attend a very fancy private school prom because, “American girls have sex at prom.”5 When I went to college, my mother would remind me to focus on my work because, “You didn’t go to college to find a husband.” Even though many of the AAG storylines focused on Margaret’s relationships, they were always to the dismay of her mother. Furthermore, there were no recurring boyfriends; each was gone after a single episode. Instead, Margaret’s love interests were pawns in the mother-daughter relationship, deployed to reveal the antagonism between generations. This is explicated in the pilot episode—named for the love interest du jour, Kyle. Although Margaret doesn’t think very highly of Kyle, she continues to date him as a way to aggravate her mother; when Ruthie asks, “What is it with you and her [your mother]?” Margaret responds: It’s a never-ending cycle. She finds fault in something I do so I do something else to upset her even more. She comes down on me for that and it starts all over again. It’s sick and yet there’s something almost beautiful in the dysfunction of it all. (6:30)

This perpetual intergenerational strife and the differences in expectations of love become more salient in subsequent episodes. In episode 2, “Submission: Impossible,” Margaret invites her mother to set her up, much to Katherine’s delight as she has been developing a database of young desirable Korean men for years. Katherine settles on Raymond, a doctor “from a good traditional family,” but Margaret is incapable of maintaining Raymond’s demure expectations, ultimately ending the fabricated relationship. In  episode 5, “Redesigning Women,” Margaret 5  She did allow me to go to my own prom a year later, and even sewed the dress because I couldn’t find one that matched my frame. Although now I wonder if it was to ensure that the dress itself was appropriately modest.

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corrupts Amy, her brother’s Korean-American girlfriend (played by Ming-Na Wen) who Katherine adores, by taking her to a nightclub and inquiring about her hobbies independent of Stuart. Amy  emerges in Margaret’s image by the end of the episode—wearing a short leather skirt and dancing all night long—forcing Stuart and Katherine to become more considerate of Amy’s independence and American-ness. In these episodes, the behavioral expectations for Korean women are juxtaposed with the ideal independent American woman—the single city girl—that dominated popular culture: Kelly Bundy, Denise Huxtable, Brenda Walsh, Angela Chase, Cher Horowitz, or any character played by Winona Ryder. However, these women were not burdened by intergenerational cultural differences, and in many of these roles, their dating lives were sanctioned—and even encouraged—by their parents. Instead, with Margaret Kim, Korean-American (read: first-generation) womanhood entails negotiating between the expectations of traditional Korean life and the opportunities available to women in the United States. However, in both episodes, we see Margaret (and Amy) experiment with different cultural expectations, ultimately settling on their own acculturated understanding of what it means to be an independent Korean-American woman. Interestingly, this is also evident in episode 5, “Yung at Heart,” which features Grandma falling in love with a wealthy man named Sammy. In proper sitcom fashion, her son, Benny, is skeptical of Sammy’s intentions, but both Katherine and Margaret are excited for Grandma’s individual happiness, generating delightful intergenerational interactions about love and sex. When Sammy asks Grandma to move to New York with him, she faces an existential crisis: family or romance. In a touching moment that presages Grandma’s lines in “A Night at the Oprah,” she decides to stay in San Francisco because she already has everything, revealing that family can be more important than a fabulous life and love in New York City. In all of these episodes, love is distinct and individual, but also impacts the family unit. Margaret realizes that the love of and connection with her family is more important and satisfying than the relationships that she has with men—despite talking about and seemingly enjoying sex, we never actually see her spend the night with a man. Whereas the American (read: white) single city girl’s family often serves as a secondary character to herself and her loves, Margaret consistently returns after each date to the security of family, and in doing so, AAG normalizes the idea that the lives of first-generation American women may forever be linked to their

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families, a marked difference from the mediated expectation of American womanhood present in other contemporary programming.

Navigating Independence I’ve lived on my own, I’ve held down jobs that paid my expenses, and I’ve been largely accountable to no one but myself for almost two decades but I don’t know if I’ve ever been completely independent because I’ve always been somewhat financially linked to my mother; we share a bank account and a credit card that I can use for large purchases and, as an accountant and financial advisor, she has always been in charge of my portfolio, which I am sad to admit is really beyond my comprehension. Although these links may not seem unreasonable or overly dependent, I always experience a sense of shame for not being completely independent, that some of my bills or my financial matters continue to be under the purview of my mother. I thought—as an American—you were out the house and on your own  at 18, or when you graduated college; anything less than that was considered a failure to launch. This sentiment was pervasive in the family sitcoms of the ‘80s and ‘90s: Archie Bunker (All in the Family) was forced to live with his “meathead” son-in-law, Cliff Huxtable (The Cosby Show) constantly complained about his adult children moving back in, and Al Bundy (Married with Children) famously opened every show with a disgusted look on his face as his adult children (and infantilized wife) demanded money from him. Insolvent adult children were the antithesis of the American Dream, and I was one of them. However, Margaret Kim was also an insolvent adult child, maintaining a pink-collar job as a department store clerk but without any direction. This was a source of frustration for Margaret, and as an all-American girl, I empathized but drew solace from the fact that—unlike the aforementioned examples—her family never tried to push her out of the home. On the contrary, even her brother Stuart, a successful medical doctor, also harmoniously lived at home. It is common among non-Western cultures for children to remain connected to the family even into adulthood (Kruzykowski, 2007), but a nuclear, multigenerational cohabitating family without animosity triggered by this living situation was not featured in American sitcoms. Therefore, Margaret’s inability to launch may be the joke to American audiences, but her desire to be independent from her family is the joke for migrant and intergenerationally acculturated families.

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This paradox of independence emerges multiple times throughout the series, especially in the latter episodes. In episode 14, “The Apartment,” Margaret attempts to be independent by moving out of the family home and into a two-bedroom apartment with Ruthie and Gloria. Margaret quickly learns that the needs of a single city girl (specifically the need for roommates) is not as glamorous as it appears on television. In another nod to the role of television in cultural norms, the episode samples stylistic tropes from The Real World—a popular reality show whose third season was also situated in San Francisco and overlapped with the first half of AAG—using the graffiti-style on-screen text, quick edits, music, and even individual testimonials to highlight and parody the current expectations of young American adulthood. At the end of the episode, Margaret realizes that the independence of the  “real world” is not satisfying and returns home, moving back into the basement of her family’s home to her mother’s muted satisfaction. The next episode relies on this paradoxical tenuous strength of this intergenerational bonding through compromise. Episode 15, “Notes from the Underground,” begins with Katherine acknowledging, “I like that Margaret has moved downstairs, she seems happy and we can keep an eye on her. It’s like nothing has changed,” a wink to the inherently stagnant nature of sitcoms. The episode mocks the illusion of independence that is essential to the new American woman; Margaret is excited to have “her own place,” but her parents can hear everything going on through the heating vents (Grandma talks about Margaret’s life as if it is one of her favorite sitcoms); Margaret still “shops” in their home for food and supplies, and Katherine enters the basement apartment to do laundry without notification—hilarity ensues when Margaret is down there with a man. These interactions reveal that this tethered independence allows Margaret to feel independent while her mother is still in control. I too wanted independence. I wanted my own apartment, my own career, and independence from my mother. I didn’t want to honor her rules that kept me from doing the things that I thought American girls were entitled to, like dating, partying, and staying out late. After years of living under my mother’s roof, I overcompensated for a lack of freedom in college—partying too hard, failing at classes, and generally demonstrating an inability to be independent.  But at 18, I thought I was grown and didn’t want to move back home; instead I lived in an adjoining apartment that belonged to my grandfather to which my mother had access. I shopped in my mother’s fridge, and in a seemingly shot-for-shot remake

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of Katherine walking in on Margaret, my mother walked in on me when I was with a man. In the end, I too was allowed the illusion of independence while my mother remained in control. AAG framed this tethered independence, both having one’s independent goals and desires while simultaneously considering the needs and desires of one’s family, as viable and that the intergenerational struggles regarding women’s liberation, career, and education can be resolved. For first-generation American women, this is a way of life and to see it “work” onscreen alongside the more traditional norms of the American family was eye-opening; it gave me hope that, as a young American woman with a mother and grandmother who were culturally American, I could find my own happiness that did not detract from the happiness of the people that I loved (and who loved me) the most.

Conclusion: I Am an All-American Woman Am I reading too deeply into the program? Probably. Am I imbuing it with greater meaning than was originally intended? Possibly, especially given that Cho has admitted to not having creative control (Cho has said that she didn’t even know what creative control was, much less how to ask for it at the time). However, the purpose of this autocritography is not to document issues with the production of the show or its reception by white American audiences or Asian-American audiences; it is to consider the show as a mediated narrative of first-generation American women  that normalizes these experiences. I have attempted to analyze AAG through this lens and consider what it means to laugh at the acculturation experience, more so than to laugh at the stereotypes of Asians in America. Despite the clichés and the stereotypes, the Kim family reveals how identity is inextricably linked to media presentations, and the difficulty that emerges when attempting to integrate American and non-Western cultures. Although my mother never overtly expressed a dislike for Americans, I too was sharply forbidden from doing things that seemed prototypically American. I was not allowed to have a phone in my room, a marker of American youth culture in the ‘80s and ‘90s. I wasn’t allowed to date in high school, and I definitely was not allowed to wear clothing that my mother determined to be revealing or inappropriate, even if it was popular with my friends. My mother refused to allow my preferred picture into the yearbook because it showed “too much back” even though it was a standard pose that many of my girlfriends used for their yearbook

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pictures. Before AAG, I thought that my mother was unusually strict. My friends’ parents did not apply such demands and prohibitions and they too thought that my mother was overbearing and “unfair.” However, the dynamic between Margaret and Katherine revealed that my mother was not necessarily unique, but rather her parenting strategy was uncommon among my friends. At the same time, the presence of Grandma Kim also disrupts the understanding of the American family as nuclear (i.e., parents and children only). In 1994, AAG was the first time I had seen a grandparent living in the home—although there were a few examples beforehand, including Granny in the Beverly Hillbillies (1962–1971), Grandpa in The Munsters (1964–1966), and Mona Robinson in Who’s the Boss (1983–1992)—as an important and valuable member of the family, even in her sarcastic television-­obsessed quips. This was powerful given that none of my friends lived with their grandmothers and I always felt like an anomaly, having to explain her presence or say that she was “just visiting.” AAG showed me that living with grandparents was not unreasonable, nor should it be a source of shame; it was an honor and privilege to have an older generation so close to ground and remind us where we come from. As Margaret screams when Grandma is considering leaving the family to live with her suitor in New York City in episode 4, “I need Grandma!”. AAG showed me that my life and the circumstances by which I came to be in the United States were just as legitimate as those of (white) Americans whose immigrant history was so far removed from their existence that it was neither salient nor part of their daily narrative. Considering the show through a satirical lens reveals how valuing American-ness over other cultures impacts first-generation Americans eager to belong while respecting the traditions and expectations of their parents. AAG pointed out the humor in this paradox and I was grateful for a glimpse into my own life, if only for a season. Furthermore, with the popularity of Fresh Off the Boat (ABC, 2015–2020) 20 years later, it is clear that the show was ahead of its time. To quote Grandma, “It’s wrong for a show to be judged by its ratings. It should be judged by its insight into the human condition.” The title of this chapter, “Am I an all-American girl,” is a question that has hounded me for decades. The question persists not only because of a lack of media representation but also because of a pervasive sense that my narrative—as a first-born American girl—is not the “American” narrative. Although it is uncertain if Margaret Kim ever actually resolved this apparent paradox, this is also the nature of the single city girl: she is “perpetually

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torn… simultaneously independent and infantilized… hence the term ‘girl,’ not ‘woman’” (L’Pree, 2017). Instead, in systematically re-watching AAG through a critical lens developed over decades of studying media and psychology, I realized that I was an all-American girl, defined by conflicting characteristics, and have since evolved into an all-American woman, actively embodying the opposites that appeared to tear at me in an earlier life. In the end, Margaret Kim, along with Katherine and Grandma, showed me the diversity of what all-American girls could be, satisfied and frustrated, independent and dependent, intelligent and directionless, American-born and not white.

References Cho, M. (2002). I am the one that I want. Random House Digital, Inc. Elias, N., & Lemish, D. (2008). Media uses in immigrant families: Torn between ‘inward’ and ‘outward’ paths of integration. International Communication Gazette, 70(1), 21–40. Ghirab, M. (2019). I was their American dream a graphic memoir. Penguin Random House. Gigi Durham, M. (2004). Constructing the “new ethnicities”: Media, sexuality, and diaspora identity in the lives of South Asian immigrant girls. Critical Studies in Media Communication, 21(2), 140–161. Kruzykowski, K. G. (2007). Reconciling two cultures: The experience of immigrants and first generation Americans from non-western countries. Social Sciences Journal, 7(1), 7. L’Pree, C. (2017). MARY Tyler Moore: The exemplary disruption of The Single City Girl archetype. https://www.flowjournal.org/2017/02/disruption-of-thesingle-city-girl-archetype/ Woo, M. (2014). 20 years later, Margaret Cho looks back on ‘All-American Girl’. https://character media.com/20-years-later-margar et-cho-looksback-on-all-american-girl/

CHAPTER 11

Between a Banana and a Coconut: Reflections on Being Second-Generation American on the Periphery Diane Sabenacio Nititham

When I was about 11 or 12 years old, I read my older sister’s teen magazines as if they were bibles, little sets of manuals with moral guidance about being a teenager in the early 1990s. Seventeen and YM issues cluttered my bedroom floor. I took quizzes to learn about my communication style, poured over features on the complications of being friendly and borderline flirty, and took great interest in the short write-ups of young superstars like Alicia Silverstone and Niki Taylor. Even though the models or celebrities in the magazines did not share my skin tone, hair texture, or physical type, I believed they were the pinnacle of beauty. I sought out what to wear to make me more beautiful and how to style my hair to disguise the perceived flaws of my face. Most of these guiding lessons I thought I had dismissed as I grew older. Yet, as I write this, I realize how deep of an impression some of these have left. After roughly 27 years of

D. S. Nititham (*) Murray State University, Murray, KY, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_11

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parting my hair on the side, I parted my hair down the middle of my head and was immediately filled with angst, worry, and guilt. This was no mundane uneasiness. The parting felt like a sea being split into two halves, the teeth of the comb running through the dry ground of my center part as if a miraculous feat. Rushing through me was a mixture of dread and relief. My shoulders hunched, I held my breath, and then released some heavy sighs. I had withstood teasing about my wide-bridge Asian nose in grade school, refuting the claim that my nose was flat because I fell off my bicycle onto my face. When told my eyes were wide-screen edition, I argued my vision was the same as everyone else. Teachers told me that this was normal adolescent teasing, I should toughen up. Thus, my support came from these magazines offering tips to help change my appearance. With the careful application of shadow in the folds of my eyes, I could make my eyes look larger. More importantly, by parting my hair deeply, I could move attention away from my flat nose. I really believed I was successful only for a little while, but still, the seeds were sown; I kept my side part for nearly three decades. In parting my hair down the center, I hoped to channel some of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s visual and political star power through emulating her low ponies and styled buns. In seeing more women of color in leadership now than in my youth, albeit still dismally small in number, I often wonder: who inspires my friends? Do I inspire them? Do I look like a leader? Do my students see the complex webs of power in which we are situated? If I dress more professionally, would I be able to escape the brunt of racism and misogyny or am I playing into its demands? As I write this now, I feel my pulse rising as I try to pick apart these deep-rooted feelings. I write this chapter to parse out the ways in which media taught me what it means (and doesn’t mean) to be an American, using a narrative that is both essay and autoethnography. I use a braided narrative to hold these vignettes together so that you, the reader, and I may “share in the making of meaning” as well as “String the images together, and hold the dissolving whole in our hands” (Sinor 2014, p. 195). In using this autoethnographic narrative, I examine some of the in-between spaces, an approach DeLeon finds useful in describing the “middle ground” (2010). The middle ground, formed from webs of power, is a theoretical location that serves as a vehicle to describe “experiences of those of us caught in the middle of two worlds, the in-between that exists in lived social realities” (p. 402). As I highlight my understanding of insider/outsider dynamics, gathering “knowledge from the past and not necessarily knowledge about

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the past” (Bochner, 2007, p. 203), I recognize that my story is not fully linear. I share some of my experiences of growing up as a second-­generation American in a white suburb, including how my closest first- and second-­ generation friends and I bonded over shared experiences of living in multi-­ generational households, our parents’ attitudes toward assimilation and acculturation, and our own struggles with fitting in or being token immigrant children in our classrooms. And although our parents were not all from the same country, we sympathized together about the lack of positive representations on television, film, print, and radio. I share these moments with you and also for myself and my own healing.

Multi-generational Milieus My parents met in the Chicago area in the early 1970s. Mom arrived in the US in 1971 as an accountant, and Dad came on a postdoctoral fellowship. In 1980, when my sister was four years old and I was six months old, my parents settled in a suburb about twelve miles from the city limits. The next year, my brother was born. Dad worked long hours in the early years of his growing medical practice, and Mom went back to work when my sister started kindergarten. In those early years, family members visited or stayed with us for extended periods of time, providing help for my parents with the three of us. Some of my favorite memories of this time in my life involve spending time with Dad’s family, from Thailand, and Mom’s family, from the Philippines. When we knew their flight departed from either Bangkok or Manila, my siblings and I would trace our fingers on the globe, gleefully shouting, “They’ll be here in 18 more hours!” Usually, my brother and I would give up our bedrooms and sleep in our older sister’s room. Other times, he and I would move our beds to our parents’ room. I loved reading with Dad’s youngest sister, Auntie Suchada, sitting on Grandpa Thonong and Grandma Luan’s lap, and watching television with Mom’s family, Uncle Tony, my Aunt Enia, and Grandma Lourdes. They were not all present at the same time. While I don’t recall their exact timelines, palpable memories remain etched into my body. I can feel the texture of the wallpaper on my fingertips as I listened to Auntie Suchada read The Giving Tree, our backs to the wall as we sat on the floor. I can smell the Vicks rub coming from Grandma Luan’s toiletry bag. I can feel my tongue trying to loosen the gelatin stuck between my teeth from when Grandma Lourdes and I would sneak orange fruit snacks while watching Divorce Court. I know the lyrics to many of Air Supply’s songs from

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watching Air Supply in Hawaii (1983) on Betamax repeatedly while Auntie Enia folded laundry. Auntie Enia, my godmother, is number eight of nine children. Mom, number four. Auntie Enia was my most special friend. Mom tells me that others would ask Auntie Enia, “What did you do to make Di love you so much more than the rest of us?” Auntie would shrug her shoulders and say she didn’t know. I do not know myself. Perhaps in a past life we were best friends, or maybe mother and daughter. But in this life, in my early memories, she was my everything. I can remember feeling her knees against my body as I would cling to her leg, my chin just above her knee. I remember following her around the house and asking multiple questions, “Is this why? Is that why?” She would always answer yes, no matter my question. She would shower and I would sit in the bathroom and play with my toys. Or she would fill the washing machine and I’d hover nearby. No matter where we went, I felt safe and secure. One year, for annual Catholic Schools Sunday, our teacher asked us to draw our favorite sacraments. Each year, our school celebrated with a big mass where K–8 students would participate, and we decorated our classrooms for post-mass celebrations. I choose baptism. I drew Auntie Enia in her favorite outfit: teal velvet pants and a red and white striped shirt. When she saw my drawing in the classroom, she asked, “Why did you draw me wearing that?” She smiled, but her face was red. “Auntie, it’s your favorite!” “Why do you say that?” We were still holding hands. “You wear it all the time!” I smiled back. “Well, palangga, not all the time. But I wear those house clothes so my other clothes don’t get dirty.” Perhaps she was embarrassed, but she hugged her palangga, her little sweetheart, for drawing her holding a baby Diane. When I close my eyes now, I imagine her hair always smelling like the sweet aroma of adobo. When she would leave to visit the Philippines, or go traveling to see other relatives in the US or Canada, I would wait by the front window until she was mine again. Eventually, Auntie Enia and Uncle Ruben bought a house in a neighboring suburb. They and my dear cousins still live near my parents today. At least one TV was always on at home. If Thailand or the Philippines was mentioned on the news Dad would shout, “Home is on tv!” We would come running to see the segment before the broadcast finished. My parents referred to Thailand, the Philippines, and the US as home. My siblings and I could tell which home they meant. Their homelands were

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more than their country of origin; they were also our family’s connections to their social relationships, language, and food. And my parents and their families, who had traversed borders, gave us space to grow in our new location, a home that is not only about practices of belonging, but also contradictions and vulnerabilities that come with location (Brah, 1996; Espiritu, 2003; Fortier, 1999). Auntie Enia and Uncle Tony, number seven of nine, extended connections to the Philippines via their love for popular culture. Both of them read People magazine and watched Perfect Strangers. They, along with my parents, would proudly tell my siblings and me whenever a celebrity was part-Filipino, such as Phoebe Cates, who I knew from Gremlins, Lou Diamond Philips who we recognized from La Bamba, and Rob Schneider from Saturday Night Live. We did not know of any Thai celebrities. Our list was very small; our representation in TV, music, and film was so limited both in number and in form. I accepted this list as truth, and I’m not sure where my family learned of the Filipino-ness of these celebrities. I’m not sure if my sister or brother kept track, but I did. It felt like an unspoken agreement between the famous and me. Uncle Tony was a fan of Bruce Lee and martial arts films. We would watch films or TV shows together in my parents’ bedroom on the weekend after the morning cartoons had ended. In their bedroom, there was plenty of space in front of the television for Uncle Tony to do sit-ups without fear of hitting the bed or the dresser. I, too, had ample room to imitate martial arts moves or practice ballet positions and poses. While I do not recall plots or dialogue, I remember watching people who shared our hair color and skin tone. Aside from my small list, martial arts films provided one of the few avenues to see Asians or Asian Americans—or people who were meant to pass as Asian. I was probably four or five at the time. I still feel Uncle’s scruffy beard on my cheek and can smell the crisp scent of his cologne as he carried me from room to room. My siblings and I knew that he was an accountant like Mom, but he worked far away, so took the bus. He’d call on the phone before he left work, and we would check the clock and wait for him at the front window for him to come home. On weekends, he cooked breakfast for us and hung out with us in dad’s garden. When Uncle Tony told my parents that he would return to the Philippines, I cried for hours on the floor of Mom’s home office. I knew his wife and young daughter were there, but why couldn’t they just live with us, too? He was a US citizen; couldn’t he just bring them? I knew

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the words petition and visa, but did not fully understand the complexity of labor migration, the reality of transnational families living apart, or the reasons why our families came to the US in the first place. Uncle Tony didn’t come visit me when I cried for hours. Mom later told me it was because he was heartbroken that he was the cause of my despair and could not fix it, and he cried to himself in his bedroom. Years later, Uncle Tony planned to return with his wife and five-year-­ old daughter. My sister and I were eager to grow our extended  multi-­ generational family, especially in knowing that they were going to stay with us before finding their own place. Joanne and I asked for media from the Philippines, but Uncle Tony explained to us over a staticky-crackly phone call that overseas Betamax and VHS tapes were another incompatible system. Instead, he brought us cassette tapes, introducing me to Lea Salonga. By the time Aladdin was released in 1992, I already knew about her and could not wait to share with my friends that she was the first full Filipino on my list. It was as if a special treasure had been bestowed upon me, and we would all benefit from her soulful soothing voice.

Watching Whiteness My feelings toward Asian-ness shifted throughout my life. As I got older, I began having moments where I wanted my Asian-ness to be a mere side effect of my parents’ migration rather than something that others used to define us. I had internalized the overrepresentation of white identity in the mass media, as well as the constant messages from school and social activities that this was the standard upon which we were measured (Omi & Winant, 2015). Although I did not have the conceptual framework to understand racialization, I knew I had conflicting feelings. At times, I would try to hide parts of myself that marked us as Others. Other times, I delighted in similar experiences with those close friends who were also children of immigrants, especially in our private spaces. Chris and I spent time with many of the same friends. We played together, frequented the mall together, and consumed a lot of television and film together. Our closest friends, Anjali and Rishi, lived on the next street. They were second-generation and referred to themselves as half-­ Filipino—just like us. Their parents and our parents knew each other years before we were born, and we were as close as immediate family. Monica, who moved to our suburb right before I started first grade, was also firstgeneration born. Her parents were from Colombia, and she and her

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siblings spoke Spanish at home. I loved going to these friends’ homes for many reasons. We enjoyed many of the same games, media, and food. We made each other laugh with ease. My friends also had multi-generational households, with relatives visiting from around the US and their home countries, and we would regularly hear different languages and accents. I loved that this was part of normal family life rather than some extraordinary circumstance. I felt at home in their homes. During the week, viewing was often passive, the TV on in the background while doing homework, hanging out with Anjali and Rishi, or eating a meal. On the weekends, we went to the theater in the mall, to Blockbuster and choose a movie based solely on the tape cover, or we watched our favorites recorded from TV. We had most of the lines memorized from  The Great Outdoors, Back to the Future, Spaceballs, and The Princess Bride. From these, we learned important nuggets for the future: don’t feed the bears chocolate bars, don’t drive a DeLorean time machine past 88 mph, and be clear and effective in communication, especially when in space or in a fairy tale. When we went to the theater, we took turns checking the newspaper for listings or calling the theater for the pre-recorded message. At Anjali and Rishi’s house, their mom, our Tita Cionie, offered Filipino or Indian food, and sometimes, she also heated a frozen meal. She introduced Chris and me to Stouffer’s lasagna, and I was strangely excited when she served it in the box; Mom always moved frozen, ready-made meals, or take-out onto a platter and stuck in a disproportionately large serving spoon. When I think of this time in our lives, my heart fills with warmth, laughter, and delight in sharing cheesy gooey carbs layered with meat sauce and a side scoop of rice at their kitchen table. No matter what was served, just like at our house, there was always a large fresh pot of rice. Thursday and Friday nights were the most active watching times for Chris and me. Joanne was in high school and busy with extracurriculars and homework, so we did not watch often with her. For me and Chris, our regular programming blocks included NBC’s Must See TV Thursday and ABC’s TGIF lineup of the 1980s and mid-1990s. Perfect Strangers, Family Matters, and Step By Step were of special importance because it either took place in Chicago or in nearby Wisconsin. We loved to sing the opening themes and point out familiar downtown Chicago locations. We knew the shows were filmed on a set in Hollywood, but seeing characters saying familiar things about Chicago made us feel connected to their fictional lives.

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This was the limit of our connection to their stories. Although fictional, we still questioned scenarios and characters. We didn’t use the terms “problematic” or “misrepresentation,” but we did laugh when the premise would focus on the hectic household life of blended or multiple families in a suburban household, having aunts or grandparents in the household as comic relief and/or a voice of wisdom, or hilarity or tension from just the presence of numerous people in one house with contrived tensions and situations. We’d say “Look at them making a big deal about all those people” or “Oh my goodness, we’d never tell our parents that. Do people actually say ‘I love you’ so freely?” And while situations were written for the sake of the narrative, and we knew that not all homes are safe spaces, we’d still say, “Is this how ‘American’ families act?” or “Why wouldn’t you want your relatives to live near you?” We also recognized when characters spoke with (foreign) accents; their characters functioned as tools to represent “the old country” or the old-­ fashioned way of living. On Perfect Strangers, Balki Bartokomous would talk in his heavy “Mediterranean” accent about his shepherding life on the fictional island of Mypos or share outlooks on life with a tinge of simplicity, the live studio audience would laugh. Sure, the studio audience had prompts of when to laugh. But why were they laughing? Chris and I would say, “That doesn’t seem right.” Despite our enjoyment, we still felt unsettled. Were people laughing at our parents’ accents? This suspicion stayed with me for years, especially after two white friends came to our home, expecting my mom to speak in “broken English.” I said to one of them, “Isn’t your dad a veteran? So, he would know that Filipinos speak English and the Philippines was an American colony.” She replied, “Yeah, but he didn’t say anything. My mom said to speak slowly, just in case.” *** When I wasn’t with my siblings or with Anjali or Rishi, I was with Monica. My first memory of Monica is from circle time in first grade. Our teacher asked us to pick a classmate, say their name, and then roll a ball across the floor for them to catch. Many of us were together in kindergarten, but we had new classmates’ names to learn. I chose Monica because I loved her approachable smile and adored the soft ringlets in her hair. I was honored that she then said my name and rolled the ball back.

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I still have dreams that take place in Monica’s childhood home. The introverted part of me dreaded calling her house, but my love for hearing her mom answer then say, “Mónica! Teléfono!” would overpower my shyness. I was fascinated how Monica and her brothers switched effortlessly between English and Spanish. Her first- and second-generation home was similar in that it was multilingual, but it was also different because my parents spoke English to each other and rarely, if ever, spoke to us in their languages. I loved that we never had to explain to each other why we felt hypervisible as children of immigrants. “Is it like this in your parents’ home country?” our teachers and white American classmates would sometimes ask us. We’d comply with answers, but outside of school, we’d ask each other, “Why don’t they ask Phyllis? Her parents are from Italy.” Or my Greek neighbors, were their parents also read as completely foreign? As non-European children of immigrants, our outsider status was more visible. Monica and I were not seen as being global or worldly, but instead as reluctant ambassadors who had to balance the “old world” and the “new.” Monica and I didn’t have to justify our existence or our families’ migration stories to each other. We played board games, we roller-skated in our basements, we ran to the parks near our houses, and we styled each other’s hair. While waiting for her mom to pick her up from my house, we would sit in the front room and play the piano. We would take Exposé’s “Never Getting Over You Getting Over Me” sheet music, sing, and record ourselves on cassette tape, lovingly singing in our parents’ accents. In our shared liminal spaces, our acts were almost ritual, performed with regularity and significance, a participatory act of allowing us to engage with the source but also create new content for ourselves. This interplay of mimicking our parents while singing popular music allowed us to infuse our experience as outsiders in a loving and engaging way. We claimed back the laughter, the assumptions of broken English, and the stereotypes about our people that we encountered. We let the accents be ours and ours alone. We latched onto token examples in the media of our “brothers and sisters.” We delighted in seeing them, even with problematic representations. At least we could see parts of ourselves. We memorized who was Filipino and Colombian. Monica introduced me to the comedian and actor John Leguizamo and to singer/songwriter Shakira before she was known in the US. Monica knew of my short Filipino list, which became an Asian/Asian American list when we learned of comedian Margaret Cho. We also watched Troop Beverly Hills so much I’m surprised the tape did

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not warp. The film is about a soon-to-be-divorced Beverly Hills socialite named Phyllis Neffler who becomes a Wilderness Girl troop leader to her daughter’s struggling and leader-less troop. Our favorite characters, Lily Marcigan (Asian American) and Jasmine Shakar (African American), at least within the narrative of the film, did not experience the same insider/ outsider experiences we had. Instead, both Lily and Jasmine fulfilled stereotypes of minorities acting outside the white social norm: Jasmine’s performing blackness in her response to her father being pulled over for speeding—“Excuse me, officer, don’t you know who this man is?”; Lily’s militant response to a Wilderness Girl leader asking where Phyllis is—“You can torture me if you want, but I’ll never talk”—and Phyllis addressing Lily’s parents as “Mr. Dictator and Mrs. Dictator”—pointing to obvious references to the Philippines’ Marcos administration. Despite these eyebrow-­raising representations, we still enjoyed the individual and shared journeys of the characters, the way that Phyllis becomes a mother hen for the girls, and that there was a film with a primarily female cast. While we didn’t know it at the time, we were critiquing representations of whiteness and Otherness. As my social circle increased as I moved into high school, I began experiencing more microaggressions of foreignness and inferiority (Nadal et  al., 2012), as well as shame and guilt for not knowing either of my parents’ languages. Tired also of seeing media representations as the butt of jokes, tricksters, nerds, dictators, or authoritarians, eating odd smelly food or having exotic practices (Shimizu, 2017), I wanted to escape. I began playing into the cultural hegemonic practices of whiteness hoping I would resolve tension within and around me. I did not want to disrupt white equilibrium or step out of a racial comfort zone (Ambikar et  al., 2018). If I could shed my foreignness by simply stating, “I just look Asian,” I could then keep that which I treasured protected in my heart while stepping into the “new world.” I believed if I could just assimilate, I didn’t have to see myself as part of the US exclusion or segregation of Asians as that was someone else’s history (see Bhangal & Poon, 2020). These beliefs and actions are a reflection of “colonial mentality,” a form of internalized inferiority and oppression for Filipino Americans that is strongly influenced by—and a specific consequence of—Spanish and American colonialism (Ignacio, 2005). Because colonial mentality can be seen as a reactional phenomenon of the collective unconscious, gnawing like an invisible weight on Filipino American identity, mental health, and self-esteem, as well as access to resources (David, 2010; Espiritu, 2003;

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Nadal et al., 2012; Tuazon et al., 2019), it manifested in different ways for me and my friends. For me, the push and pull between the heritage I loved and the messages of foreignness/inferiority felt too agonizing. So I ate up the myth of the American Dream. I believed the rhetoric of bootstrapping, as did many of my other first- and second-gen friends around me, who were also children of post-1965 labor recruited families. We knew little of structural barriers and social policies, although they affected us. Our curriculum did not address the legacies of colonialism, war, internment camps, and genocide in Asia or Asian America, nor did we learn about the unequal distribution of wealth and power, the longstanding effects of slavery, colonialism, and genocide of black and indigenous peoples. Instead, our curriculum reflected what we also saw in film, TV, and print, that we could strive to be the best American by saying no to drugs, being like Mike, and ridding ourselves of the “old world” for full assimilation. I often wonder if our lives would have been different if we incorporated all of the messages we learned from film, television, and magazines, teaching us how to be “American.” It was rarely, if ever, explicitly stated “this is how you should act,” but the messages were there. Accumulated enough cultural knowledge to become more “American,” would it have changed perceptions of us? Probably not. I could argue that as children of immigrants, we were coping with our liminal spaces by engaging selective acculturation processes, of making accommodations of the “old world” to the culture of the “new world” destination society (Bartram et al., 2014). We weren’t fully in this new world, even if we juggled and adopted dominant cultural behaviors and values, while seeking support from other firstand second-generation friends (Le & Raposa, 2019). Maybe it’s more useful to say we experienced relational acculturation, which applies a more dynamic lens to look at the ways that immigrants and first- and second-­ generation youth form relationships within the shifting cultural contexts in which they take place (Bartram et al., 2014, p. 11). My friends and I called this “culture clash,” but the clashing was not two worlds. Instead, it was navigating how we understood our lives, our mundane existences, and how we responded and coped with false and damaging dichotomies of American/foreigner.

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Banana Split As youth in the late 1990s and early 2000s, we still had such limited representation in the media. With few visible role models in the public sphere, we relied on our parents, older siblings, and other community members for examples of how to respond to dominant narratives of assimilation and acculturation. While I remained proud of my family, my guilt for not speaking either of my parents’ languages was strongly intertwined with embarrassment. I could not say the names of different dishes that my parents cooked, and my colonial mentality led to a growing resentment toward the ways that my friends and I were Othered during our childhood years. I loathed being called a banana or a coconut, pejorative racial terms to describe first- and second-generation children being yellow or brown on the outside but acting white or feeling white on the inside. These conflicting feelings were shared by my other first- and second-generation friends. Sometimes, we were in disagreement over how to best handle conflicts. Other times we were in agreement, such as expressing solidarity and excitement for yellow and brown people who looked like us in media. We all hated those racialized fruit metaphors to shame us for our lack of belonging to the “old” or “new” world. Saturday morning television offered some respite, and the continuity of regular morning routine gave us some stability. Chris and I woke up, watched early morning cartoons, then I would head to ballet class. Monica joined me for tap, right after ballet. Chris went to Tae Kwon Do in the same strip mall, conveniently at the same time. These activities complemented our middle-class suburban lives. Monica’s mom and my mom agreed that this physical activity was important not just for exercise and movement, but also a good way to keep us occupied (relief for them) and to socialize with peers in the larger community. There were also latent benefits, such as practicing cooperation and social skills. Even though Tae Kwon Do was an activity of convenience, Chris loved it because it reminded him of Uncle Tony’s love for martial arts. By this time, Uncle Tony had returned to live in the Philippines. But, the most important latent benefit of all was ensuring we children performed all activities as well as possible. Our parents often reminded us that as children of immigrants, we had to be the best at everything. My mom often said, “being your best will give you the last laugh”—which I always met with a giant eye roll because it did not help me in that current moment. But etched into my brain was her reply when we complained about doing an extracurricular activity, “You

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have to perform 150% for Americans to see you at 80%.” I understand this now. When we aged out of the Saturday morning classes, many of our activities shifted to high school-related activities on weekdays. To us, this meant Saturdays were TV.  We did not even think about all those other benefits that our parents sought for us. Another Filipina second-generation friend, Annalizza, had similar Saturday mornings. When she aged out of her early morning dance classes, she, too, had more time for Saturday morning TV watching. I met Anna via my extended Filipino social circle and we ended up attending the same high school. When Anna and I heard that Mark-Paul Gosselaar, who played Zack Morris on Saved by the Bell was half-Asian, we shared a series of “no way” and “awesome” responses. From then on, we just pretended that he also had dark hair like us. Anna and I were doubly excited for another NBC Saturday morning show, California Dreams. When Jennie Kwan joined the cast of the show, we knew that Kwan had a lead role in a production of Miss Saigon. We told anyone who would listen that Asians could play lead roles. While the characters they played were not entirely complex, and though Zack Morris was white and not mixed-race, seeing faces similar to ours that were not playing evil foreigners felt validating. During our first year of high school, Anna and I jumped in our home-­ room when we heard ABC would air All-American Girl, a sitcom featuring Margaret Cho. The show, the first series to have an Asian American cast, was premised on being “Korean” and “American” and the comedic struggle that emerged from the two supposedly conflicting identities. As a middle-class family living and working in a major city, it seemed like a regular and accessible Korean American family. We were not Korean, but the proximity to our Asian-ness was enough. We made a point to watch every episode. But, instead of insights to the ins and outs of acculturation, what emerged was not about where “America” and “Korea” met, but rather that Asian-ness/foreignness was funny and a joke at the expense of the already marginalized. We weren’t alone in critiquing clichés the representation of “old world” versus “new world.” The strong backlash from the Asian and Asian American community was not solely due to inaccuracies of language, food, and décor, but also assumptions about identities as if they existed in a vacuum, that “these identities exist in some static, homogenous form which must be reflected onscreen” (Park, 2014, p. 642). While there isn’t one singular experience of being Asian, American, or Asian American, and for all the hopes the Asian American actors had, this was sadly not the chance for positive mainstream exposure.

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We kept on the lookout for more yellow and brown pop stars and celebrities. Superficial? Perhaps. Yet as banana and coconut kids in a white suburb, we could never fully assimilate. We were born and raised in the US, ate the same fast food as our white friends, shopped at the same stores, played in the same intramural teams, and joined the same scouting clubs. We learned alongside our white friends about dreams of upward mobility and were similarly taught to celebrate unregulated capitalism. Yet we were often reminded that unlike our favorite white families on TV who could just exist in their mundane comedic struggles, we largely remained to be seen in media as oddities, mysterious boat people, and poor English speakers. We took note of every bit of “our kind” in media, even if those representations were inaccurate. I began realizing that fully rejecting being Asian or accepting the model minority did not lead to a better quality of life. I felt split. Wavering between visibility and disappearing, I favored disappearing. I shifted toward visibility in the early 2000s when I visited Joanne, who had just moved to San Francisco. Joanne took me to watch a screening of The Debut, a movie about Ben Mercado, a Filipino American high school student who grapples with his identity as an American and a child of Filipino immigrants. In the movie, Ben (Dante Basco) is a talented artist who plans to attend a prestigious art college after secretly declining a university scholarship. In the events leading up to his sister’s eighteenth birthday party (her deh-BOO), he comes face-to-face with his immigrant parents’ expectations, his own struggles to be accepted as a white “American,” and other interactions with white and first- and second-­ generation peers. When I saw this screening with my sister, I felt a mix of excitement and relief. I felt warm inside while shaking with happy chills. I had never seen so many Asian Americans in one place, I was amazed that Filipino Americans wrote and were featured in a movie, and I was watching it in an actual movie theater. And we were all Asian and American watching the words and performances of Filipino Americans together. There were many first- and second-generation familiar themes and references in the film, including shame, guilt, and colonial mentality. In some of the scenes with his white friends, Ben tries to hide aspects of his heritage, tries his best to be white, and struggles with his sister who appears to accept being Filipino American without issue. For me, this tension was not just reflected in my interactions with my family, but also among many of my second-gen friends. Even in Ben’s attempts to be white, he is still limited by how others perceive him. In a scene where he is at a party and

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experiences racial hostility from a drunk white partygoer. While he is called a “fucking chink” and he is not Chinese, this misrecognition was a turning point in his struggle and reoriented from “whiteness and returns him to his family and Filipino heritage” (Pisares, 2011, p. 431). I saw this as a clear plot device, a critical moment for the main character to bring resolution to his cultural struggles. Other moments or characters in the film touched on familiar first- and second-gen Filipino American identities, such as the DJ, the dancer, the auntie who gossips and/or marries a white American, and the hardworking parents with traditional gender roles. My brother-in-law, who grew up in California around communities of Filipino Americans, thought the movie packed in too much and was an obvious ploy to reach a broad Filipino Americans audience. I nodded, but I also felt a deep happiness in seeing these multiple representations instead of a single static story. I felt re-energized as if the veil of invisibility was lifted, and the complexity of our experiences becoming visible on a theater screen. While there was a scattering of films where we could see diverse experiences of brown and yellow folk, such as Bend it Like Beckham, The Namesake, Monsoon Wedding, and Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, it was not until Crazy Rich Asians and Always Be My Maybe did I feel the warmth of my tears matching the heartfelt joy I experienced while watching The Debut. These films, offering a variety of storylines and genres for multi-­ situated Asians and Asian Americans, provided relief to my low self-esteem and fragmented cultural identity. Learning that my identity was not solely a product of my individual situation, but also by US imperialism, global migration, and racialized ideologies, has given me insight into my feelings of marginality. Having more brown and yellow people representation has been life-changing. Although increased representation is not enough to achieve equity, seeing the small slice of our American pie on the small and big screens has given me hope.

Coconut Shavings Coming to terms with my brown-ish-yellow skin has been a non-linear journey. Today, I parted my hair down the middle again. Each time, it gets a little easier. My nose, still with me, balances a pair of specialty wide-­ bridge glasses. My nose is just as visible as it always was. No matter where I part my hair, or how I put makeup on my eyes, or what I wear will not

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enhance or decrease my American-ness. I know this, now. Writing this, it feels silly. But the pain of exclusion still feels real. The moments in this narrative sit at the intersections of global migration, acculturation, and media. My friends and I, as second-generation Americans, saw very limited and mostly problematic representations of people who looked like us. We had very few visible examples of those who experienced assimilation to white American culture, so when we found celebrities and singers who looked like us or came from the same countries as our families, we embraced them and added them to our extended families. My friends and I bonded through our shared moments of racial discrimination and exclusion and our shared love for the few first-and second-generation narratives available to us. Each year, I visit my sister. I think back to the moments of first watching The Debut, surrounded by other yellowy-brown folks. I still romanticize that moment, and I fancy the notion of moving to the West Coast, somewhere in California where I can be surrounded by yellowy-brown folk, others who understand the contractions of bananas and coconuts, and more mixed-race children who look like my toddler son. I idealize living in a place where I don’t have to justify my existence, where I don’t have to explain where I’m “really from,” where I can find the food of my parents’ home countries without difficulty, without it being a specialized ethnic space. Maybe no place like this exists. I know that there will be a different range of challenges, frustrations, and community dynamics no matter where my family and I end up living. I know that representation and increased diversity do not translate to equity or a life free of macro and microaggressions. It does not make legacies of colonialism and racialization magically disappear. Yet, I still dream of a place where we see our faces reflected back at us, in both our individual lives and the larger community. I wish that my Filipino/Thai and Irish child may not have to question or rationalize his existence as much as my first- and second-generation friends and I did.

References Ambikar, R., Guentchev, D., & Lunt, D. (2018). A conversation on challenging and using comfort-zone racism in the classroom. In Difficult subjects: Insights and strategies for teaching about race, sexuality, and gender. Sterling: Stylus. Bartram, D., Poros, M.  V., & Monforte, P. (2014). Key concepts in migration. Thousand Oaks: Sage.

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Bhangal, N., & Poon, O. (2020). Are Asian Americans White? Or people of color? Yes! https://www.yesmagazine.org/social-­justice/2020/01/15/asian-­ americans-­people-­of-­color/?fbclid=IwAR0If_R-­Nex7XeQoDrY6KskMJMrEw _2fl2AhGX5LJYPRr7TX1K2qp1Pb7L4 Bochner, A. P. (2007). Notes toward an ethics of memory in autoethnographic inquiry. In N. K. Denzin & M. D. Giardina (Eds.), Ethical futures in qualitative research (pp. 196–208). Walnut Creek, CA: Left Coast Press. Brah, A. (1996). Cartographies of diaspora: Contesting identities. New  York: Routledge. David, E. J. R. (2010). Testing the validity of the colonial mentality implicit association test and the interactive effects of covert and overt colonial mentality on Filipino American mental health. Asian American Journal of Psychology, 1(1), 31–45. DeLeon, A.  P. (2010). How do I begin to tell a story that has not been told? Anarchism, autoethnography, and the middle ground. Equity and Excellence in Education, 43(4), 398–413. Espiritu, Y.  L. (2003).  Home Bound: Filipino American Lives across Cultures, Communities, and Countries. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Fortier, A. M. (1999). Re-membering places and the performances of belonging(s). Theory, Culture & Society, 16(2), 41–64. Ignacio, E. N. (2005). Building diaspora: Filipino cultural community formation on the internet. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Le, T. P., & Raposa, E. B. (2019). The role of enculturation and acculturation in Asian and European American college students’ daily social stress and support. Asian American Journal of Psychology, 10(1), 11–21. Nadal, K.  L., Vigilia Escobar, K.  M., Prado, G.  T., David, E.  J. R., & Haynes, K. (2012). Racial microaggressions and the Filipino American experience: Recommendations for counseling and development. Journal of Multicultural Counseling and Development. Omi, M., & Winant, H. (2015). Racial formation in the United States (3rd ed.). New York: Routledge. Park, J.  C. H. (2014). The failure of Asian American representation in All-­ American Girl and The Cho Show. Gender, Place & Culture, 21(5), 637–649. Pisares, E. H. (2011). The social-invisibility narrative in Filipino-American feature films. Positions: East Asia Cultures Critique, 19, 421–437. Shimizu, C.  P. (2017). Gnawing at the whiteness of cinema studies: On Asian American media now. Cinema Journal, 56(3), 119–154. Sinor, J. (2014). Teaching English in the two year college. Urbana, 42(2), 188–196. Tuazon, V. E., Gonzalez, E., Guiterrez, D., & Nelson, L. (2019). Colonial mentality and mental health help-seeking of Filipino Americans. Journal of Counseling and Development, 97, 352–363.

CHAPTER 12

Language, Telenovelas, and Citizenship: A Mexican Immigrant’s Exploration of FirstGeneration American Narratives in Jane The Virgin Litzy Galarza

The CW’s Jane The Virgin1 (JTV) is the most recent broadcast network show to feature Latinas and issues of immigration and citizenship at the forefront. JTV (2014–2019) appeals to and offers portrayals of immigrants, including first-, second-, and third-generation Americans, through multi-dimensional characters and storylines. In this chapter, I draw on Andrea Pitts’ (2016) discussion of Gloria Anzaldúa’s autohistoria-teoría to illustrate how media portrayals of Latinas in JTV have shaped my self-­ knowledge/ignorance practices. Through writing about my first-­generation Mexican American experience, I explore the role of media 1  Jane The Virgin, hereafter JTV, wrapped its fifth and final season in July 2019 and outlived its predecessor, and first U.S. telenovela adaptation and dramedy, Ugly Betty (2006–2010) by one season.

L. Galarza (*) University of North Alabama, Florence, AL, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_12

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representations in contributing to, and challenging, my ­self-knowledge/ ignorance regarding immigration and Latinx citizenship. JTV contends with the lack of awareness of immigration policy and the effect of immigration laws on multiple generations within mixed-status households. The series’ engagement of the immigrant experience in a multi-generational family not only advocates for “#IMMIGRATIONREFORM” but also illustrates the role of media in fostering identity-making for the Latinx diaspora. As the first and the longest-running broadcast network show to feature not one but three Latinas as main characters, JTV focuses on the lives of three generations of Villanueva women. The protagonist Jane Gloriana Villanueva, portrayed by Gina Rodriguez (second-generation Puerto Rican), is an aspiring writer and waitress at the Marbella, a Miami2 hotel owned by the Solano family. Her mother Xiomara Gloriana Villanueva, portrayed by Andrea Navedo (second-generation Nuyorican), is an aspiring singer and children’s dance instructor (Episode 7, Season 1). Jane’s grandmother Alba Gloriana Villanueva, portrayed by Ivonne Coll (former Miss Puerto Rico), is religiously devout and undocumented (Stanley, 2015). JTV relies on tropes of the telenovela genre, including romantic love triangles and rags-to-riches storylines, to tell the tale of how Jane’s life changes when she is accidentally artificially inseminated with the sperm of Rafael Solano, portrayed by Justin Baldoni (of Jewish and Italian ancestry). Solano is also the hotel heir she happened to share a magical kiss with five years prior. At Alba’s request, Jane vows to abstain from sex until marriage. But because of a medical mix-up, Jane becomes a pregnant 23-year-­old virgin while dating Michael Cordero, portrayed by Canadian actor Brett Dier, a police detective (Martinez, 2015). In addition, Jane’s long-­ lost father Rogelio De La Vega, portrayed by Mexican actor Jaime Camil, is an international telenovela star and Anthony Mendez (second-­ generation Dominican American) is the comedic Latin lover narrator (Stanley, 2015). My connection to JTV began during my graduate studies at the University of Missouri. Even though I was studying journalism, I decided to write my master’s thesis on portrayals of Latinidad in JTV after hearing 2  The city of Miami in JTV comes to represent a hybrid cultural space much like Ugly Betty’s workplace at Mode becomes culturally and socially significant as representative of white American culture (Murillo Sandoval & Escala Rabadán, 2013; Avila-Saavedra, 2010). In JTV, Latinxs are integrated into the fabric of the city through cultural elements including food trucks selling Cubano sandwiches (Episode 15, Season 1) and music festivals such as Calle Ocho (Episode 16, Season 1). Unlike in Ugly Betty, all public and private spaces in JTV are open to the Villanuevas.

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about the show from my sister (Galarza, 2016). Until then, I had never watched an English-language broadcast network television show featuring a Latina protagonist whom I could relate to. In fall 2014, I was beginning to wrestle with being away from the Sonoran Desert, the Southwest that was once Mexican territory, and my family. Since migrating to Phoenix, Arizona, from Durango, Mexico, with my parents and older sisters when I was six years old, I lived among other Latinxs, primarily communities of Mexican ancestry, where my ethnic identity did not make me an outsider. Even though I studied at the University of Arizona, home to a Mexican American studies department, I did not take coursework that addressed my ancestors’ histories. In the Midwest, being one of few Latinx graduate students in my program forced me to think about how being an immigrant has shaped my self-identity, my views on the nation-state, and citizenship. Through my thesis on JTV, I was able to continue my studies in the mass communications doctoral program at the Pennsylvania State University. My dissertation focused on discourses of citizenship and belonging in JTV (Galarza, 2020). As the narratives surrounding three generations of the Villanuevas evolved, so did the narratives shaping my journey in higher education and continued struggle with identity, citizenship, and belonging. This chapter draws on Anzaldúa’s autohistoria-teoría (Anzaldúa & Keating, 2015; Pitts, 2016), autoethnography (Amaya, 2007; Calafell, 2008), and autobiographical analysis (Silverblatt et al., 1999) to theorize about the role of JTV and immigration policy in shaping and rewriting my self-identity. My analysis is informed by Valdivia’s radically hybrid Latinas (2004) and the global circulation of a gendered Latinidad (2011) for the Latinx diaspora. Previous representations of Latinas also shape my analysis of JTV (Amaya, 2013; Molina-Guzmán, 2010, 2018). A brief discussion of immigration policy, enforcement, and developments contextualizing JTV follows. My analysis addresses the role of language in JTV and my journey toward identifying the structural factors affecting my relationship to Spanish, my native language. JTV’s treatment of Spanish as co-equal to English defies mainstream television’s approach to language, which is most beautifully exemplified through Alba and the Spanish telenovelas that function as the series’ DNA. Telenovelas are the connective tissue for generations of Villanuevas and the Latinx diaspora. Jane’s love of telenovelas becomes part of the educational capital supporting her, and subsequently my own, upward mobility. Jane’s thesis, and eventual book, is a telenovela centered on Alba’s immigration story. The effect of

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immigration laws, including the condition of illegality on mixed-status households, in JTV is part of the series’ legacy in depicting first-generation American narratives in television.

Autoethnography, Character Identification Analysis, and Radical Latinas Andrea Pitts (2016) argues that all knowledge is relational and situated in specific contexts (p.  355). Moreover, identity formation and “self-­ knowledge/ignorance” are social practices that demand “contestation and affirmation as well, including, resistance and productive friction” (Pitts, 2016, p. 353). Pitts’ most radical claim is that self-knowledge practices are also forms of social knowledge (2016, p.  357). Because my identity is formed through this push and pull via interactions with those that are similar to and also different from me, I embark on a painful journey to not only “write my self into being,” but also rewrite my self through the practice of what Anzaldúa calls autohistoria-teoría. Self-writing as theorizing, according to Anzaldúa, draws on personal and collective history using fictive elements as “a way of inventing and making knowledge, meaning, and identity through self-inscriptions” (Anzaldúa & Keating, 2015, p. 6). This practice of narrating stories about embodied identity, Pitts argues, is “a collective form of meaning-making” (2016, p. 358). Autoethnography is a qualitative approach to research that allows for the use of personal experience to theorize, connect the individual to a community, and methodologically “‘get to culture’” (Amaya, 2007, p. 196). Bernadette Marie Calafell (2008) suggests that autoethnography is also performative and an exercise that must be self-reflexively critical and cautious against narcissistic autoethnography (p. 72). This is accomplished by paying careful attention to how one’s shifting location may alter their subjectivity from speaking out of a position of power or otherness. Calafell (2008) suggests that the intentional “use [of] the ‘I’ [functions] as a possible space of empathy and identification, which seeks to implicate the reader” (p. 71). Hector Amaya (2007) uses autoethnography to theorize about the centrality of immigration in his journey to radically rewrite his self. Rewriting the self, he argues, is a practice (or practices) that many immigrants embrace in order to socially integrate into the new culture. Amaya refers to these practices or rewrites as “performances of acculturation” (2007, p.  195) where acculturation signifies “the modification of

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the culture of a person or group due to contact with a different culture” (Amaya, 2007, p. 198). This process takes place in the social realm with psychological and material implications and is critically self-reflexive in the immigrant’s attempt to regain ontological security. The rewriting of the self “tries to account for the changed environment, the narratives coming from this new landscape, and the actions available which are constituted materially and [emphasis in original] symbolically” (Amaya, 2007, p. 199). The stories we invent to make sense of our reality are never static: “tu autohistoria is not carved in stone but drawn on sand and subject to shifting winds,” forcing us to reshape and reinvent our stories and realities into “increasingly multidimensional versions where body, mind, and spirit interpenetrate in more complex ways” (Anzaldúa & Keating, 2015, pp. 142–143). In symbolic and material realms, Latinidad functions as an in-between ethnicity that elides whiteness and blackness in the U.S. Even though the presence of Latinxs, especially Mexicans, in what is present-day United States predates this national designation, Latinidad also signifies immigrant, foreign, and eternal outsider status (Chavez, 2013). Valdivia (2004) suggests that hybridity rejects “essentialist notions, either of gender or of ethnicity and race, as well as an acknowledgement that there is no purity to be found at the level of cultural, the body, blood, or DNA” (p.  4). Karim (2010) also notes that diasporas and multiculturalism policies have led to the recognition that nation-states are not, and have never been ethnically pure. Latinas are radical hybrids or “a hybrid of hybrids” because their/our ancestors in Latin America are not part of racially homogenous peoples. Media representations of Latinxs, however, flatten their/our heterogeneity and reduce them/us to “a brown race” where diversity transforms into ambiguous shades of brown (Valdivia, 2004, p.  6). This ambiguity allows some Latinas to “border cross traditional ethnic lines” to represent a generalized otherness in addition to stereotypical Latinidad3 (Valdivia, 2004, p. 15). Amaya (2007) critiques hybridity as an “unlivable term” signaling a preference for acculturation saying, “I know I am never a hybrid, I am one or the other or the other, never all” (p.  198). By embracing modern understandings of the self where definitions to talk about experience “do not allow for duality, placelessness, or simultaneity,” 3  See also Valdivia’s discussion of the global commodification of Latinidad, which she argues rests on the backs of women, through Ugly Betty, Dora The Explorer, and Latina celebrities Jennifer Lopez, Salma Hayek, and Afro-Latina Celia Cruz (2011).

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Amaya (2007) describes his self as a social performer who fragments his identity depending on the audience (p. 198). The possibility that duality, placelessness, and/or simultaneity might be impossible in critical self-­ reflection may be one example of self-knowledge practices that might be enabling and productive or harmful and paralyzing and part and parcel to self-ignorance (Pitts, 2016, p. 357). Character identification analysis asks that individuals interrogate elements of media representations in the context of their personal experience (Silverblatt et al., 1999, p. 81). Specifically, this method of analysis requires that we ask whether character identification amounts to likeness, or “finding a resemblance with a character,” or aspiration, which is characterized by “wishing to emulate the character.” Addressing the difference between likeness and aspiration helps “provide insight into [my] perceived gender, ethnic, racial, and class identification, as well as information about what [I] consider attractive or engaging behaviors, values, and attributes” (Silverblatt et al., 1999, p. 81). Although media portrayals are incapable of presenting life accurately, the world depicted by media is perceived as real by audiences and often does inform our understanding of self-identity and others. Media, then, are part of self-knowledge/ignorance practices. These practices “are always accompanied by knowledge-of-others and ignorance-of-others” (Pitts, 2016, p. 357). Valdivia (2011) and Amaya (2013), among others, push for dislodging Latinidad from a U.S.-centric approach to identity because the Latinx diaspora has spread all over the globe, not just the United States. Karim H. Karim (2010) addresses the role of diasporas in challenging the concept of the nation-state. Diasporas are often described as “transnations” and “imagined communities” which recognize both “the improbability of experiencing first-hand contact with the entire group” and “the adherence of its members to similar beliefs, symbols and myths” (Karim, 2010, p. 396). Diasporas predate the nation-state system, and the formation of diasporas is fueled by human migration, which has only intensified due to globalization. Human migrations have resulted in diasporas that “are layered by periods of immigration, the extent of integration into receiving societies, and the maintenance of links with the land of origin as well as with other parts of the transnational group” (Karim, 2010, p. 399). Latin American audiences (Barrera & Bielby, 2001; Martín-Barbero, 1998) and U.S.  Latina audiences (Báez, 2018; Mayer, 2003) interpret popular media to make sense of their place in society including national and intra-ethnic identity. These media practices can also foster identity

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formation, negotiation, and community. The representation of Latinas in broadcast television contextualizes the importance and legacy of JTV’s Villanuevas. Early portrayals of Latin American actresses in Hollywood informed the subsequent representation of Latinas in television. Carmen Miranda and Lupe Velez are two stars that come to mind. However, it is challenging to name an influential Latina in US television in its early years. Mary Beltrán (2016) addresses the portrayal of Vitoria Cannon, the wife of John Cannon in the 1960s Western The High Chaparral, by an Italian-­ Argentinean actress. The portrayal of Latinas increased in the 2000s. The premiere of the ABC drama Desperate Housewives (2004–2012) with Eva Longoria as Gabrielle Solis signaled the profitability of marketing Hispanics to the mainstream (Luther et al., 2012, p. 91). ABC followed this rating success with Ugly Betty (2006–2010), a telenovela adaptation of Colombia’s Yo soy Betty, la fea. Critiquing liberal ideologies including the American Dream and meritocratic narratives, Molina-Guzmán contends that Latinidad and Latina identity are depoliticized and ideologically sublimated for global appeal (2010, pp. 120–121). Molina-Guzmán argues the show’s narrative hinges on deracialized liberalism where Betty “is a Latina, sometimes, but an ugly-duckling working-­ class girl always” (2010, p.  136). For Valdivia (2011), Ugly Betty is emblematic of the global, hybrid, and gendered face of Latinidad (p. 54). The text is a hybrid in terms of genre in that Ugly Betty is both a comedy and drama or dramedy. Ugly Betty offers hybrid representations through the portrayal of a Mexican American working-class Latina in a white and upper-middle-class world. The text offers a hybrid ethnicity that is both gendered and classed but results in the collapse of class and ethnic categories into a globalized Latinidad (Valdivia, 2011, pp. 55–56). Valdivia cautions that “these scripts of race and hybridity run the risk of being further flattened, as they are multiply interpreted around the globe” (2011, p.  57). Ugly Betty illustrates the lack of Latina leads that are beautiful, intelligent, and “morally” good (Katzew, 2011). ABC presents yet another Latina lead in Modern Family (2009–2020) where Colombian American Sofia Vergara is cast as Gloria Delgado-­ Pritchett, the wife of an older white businessman. Gloria speaks with a thick accent and her English is constantly ridiculed, even by her own son, the assimilated Manny. As a result, Gallegos (2012) implies Gloria’s character embraces the role of the “spitfire” Latina. Molina-Guzmán (2018) contends Vergara embodies the gendered role of a US Colombian spitfire

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(p. 67). The term, coined by Ramírez Berg (2002), suggests Latinas are loud and short-tempered (Gallegos, 2012, p.  35). On the one hand, Vergara’s character can be read as the Latina straight man who counters comedic hipster racism, challenges or symbolically ruptures established representations of Latina motherhood, and implicitly critiques whiteness. On the other, the production of Gloria relies on her accent and hypersexualized gendering to position her as eternally foreign (Molina-Guzmán, 2018, pp. 88–102). More recent dramas include Lifetime’s Devious Maids (2013–2016), which was produced by Longoria and offered a diverse cast with narratives that deemphasize gender and racial inequality (Báez, 2015); Hulu’s series East Los High (2013–2017), which Molina-Guzmán (2016) argues is emblematic of innovative models of production and ruptures stereotypes of Latinxs; Netflix’s series Orange Is the New Black (2013–2018) and One Day at a Time (2017–); and NBC’s SuperStore (2015–). These shows coincided in part with JTV’s (2014–2019) representation of Latinxs. Except for Modern Family and SuperStore, none of these shows were broadcast through two presidential administrations, Obama and Trump, and sustained a narrative on issues of immigration in a Latinx context like JTV. JTV intervened in ongoing discussions surrounding immigration reform at a time when then-President Obama was being labeled “deporter-­ in-­ chief” by immigration rights activists (Corones, 2015). In 2012, Obama signed an executive order, Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), to shield undocumented non-citizens who fit certain criteria from deportation (Preston & Cushman Jr., 2012). By 2013, immigration reform was dead on arrival and the Obama administration was well on its way to deporting more immigrants than all twentieth-century presidents combined in 2014 (Marshall, 2016). Bill Ong Hing (2019) illustrates how the present-day infrastructure for deportations and family separation was put in place by the Carter administration, thereby making subsequent U.S. presidents “deportation kings” regardless of party affiliation. Chavez (2013) highlights the discourses or “taken-for-granted truths” about Latinxs, centered on race, immigration, and fertility, that coalesce into the Latino Threat Narrative. This narrative, perpetuated by mass media, places Latinxs outside of the national imaginary and as an eternal un-assimilating threat to the nation. Chavez details how Latinxs have historically been legally racialized and “othered” so that all Latinxs, specifically Mexicans, have come to represent the quintessential “illegal aliens” (2013, p. 26).

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Amaya (2013) and Chavez (2013) detail how the nation-state system creates the condition of illegality or a “legal fiction” which legalizes inequality based on the binary of the citizen and non-citizen. The following sections address three specific aspects of acculturation presented in JTV that have shaped the rewriting of my self but also my performance of various types of citizenship. This analysis begins with an exploration of linguistic citizenship in the series. The relationship that the Villanueva women have to language, specifically language as citizenship, mirrors the dynamics that are present for many immigrant multi-­ generational households. My identification with the characters, Alba and Jane specifically, begins with having similar childhood experiences of frustration, in-betweenness, responsibility, and anxiety regarding translation for my parents and grandparents. The acquisition of English upon moving to the United States facilitated my ability to attain an education, which is addressed in the context of JTV’s representation of educational capital and upward mobility. Rewriting my self reveals that cultural citizenship is least secure, most slippery, and perhaps never truly attainable. This awareness leads to the last section of analysis, which focuses on JTV’s portrayal of naturalization and “#IMMIGRATIONREFORM.”

Linguistic Complexity: “Bisa” and English-as-­a-­ Second-Language (ESL) The first identity marker that separated me from my parents and grandparents was language. Spanish is my native tongue but when I came to the United States I had not yet learned how to read or write. I began first grade in Phoenix, Arizona, and was astonished that my legal name was Guadalupe and not Lupita. My first-grade teacher taught me to read and write in Spanish only to forbid Spanish in the classroom once I also learned English. I am convinced that I learned basic English watching PBS’s Arthur (1996–). My older sisters and I spent one summer in English-as-­asecond-language (ESL) and gained something our elders did not—linguistic citizenship. At home, English was bad. Spanish was good. That is, unless we were being asked to translate. At school, Spanish was never ever good. “English-only.”4 For me and my sisters, language became a bridge between two worlds. This is how we knew we would always be 4  The state of Arizona adopted “English-only” instruction in public schools in 2000. Arizona continues to be the only state in the nation with an “English-only” mandate in

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“in-between” navigating multiple worlds. Our world is one of linguistic complexity. This linguistic complexity is represented through the Villanueva household and four generations of Villanuevas in JTV. The history of portrayals of Latinxs’ language use in television is relevant here. These representations have relied on the use of Spanish accents to ridicule and set Latinxs apart from the mainstream. This history includes characters like Ricky Ricardo in I Love Lucy (1951–1957) and Gloria Delgado-Pritchett in Modern Family (2009–2020) among others (Gallegos, 2012; Molina-­ Guzmán, 2018; Ramírez Berg, 2002). These portrayals reinforce the notion that Latinxs are eternally foreign and incapable of assimilation (Chavez, 2013). JTV challenges this notion by depicting the linguistic complexities of Latinxs and normalizing the coexistence of languages for multi-generational American households. This positive portrayal of Spanish in television is only rivaled by PBS’s ¿Qué Pasa, USA? (1977–1980) and ABC’s Freddie (2005–2006). In the first season, Alba predominantly speaks Spanish and asks young Jane for help looking up the word “diabetes” on the computer (Episode 2, Season 1). This scene might be a moment of identification with secondand third-generation American children of immigrants for two reasons. Jane not only learns about diabetes in English, but she code-switches and translates this information for Alba into Spanish. In doing so, Jane navigates between two cultures and languages. Rarely does Jane actually speak Spanish in the series thereby signaling that she inhabits a radical hybrid Latinidad, which reminds us that Latinas’ language use5 varies widely (Valdivia, 2004; Báez, 2018). When Jane ends up being accidentally artificially inseminated, she gets frustrated trying to translate what happened to Alba (Episode 2, Season 1). The children of first-generation Americans might identify with the frustration Jane experiences in being unable to explain complicated medical and legal issues in a second language. Even so, Alba’s character is never linguistically isolated. When Michael attends his first Villanueva family meeting to discuss Jane’s decision to keep the baby, it is Michael who needs Jane to translate for him (Episode public schools as of January 2020 (Jacobson, 2020). Research shows that this approach to education has not worked and is detrimental to English-language learners (Hoffman, 2019). 5  Gina Rodriguez’s Spanish language use was criticized in popular media regarding her portrayal of Jane (Fox News, 2015). Rodriguez is not fluent in Spanish and represents a challenge to the notion that all Latinxs share a common language.

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2, Season 1). Both Jane and Xiomara speak to Alba in English and she responds in Spanish, thereby signaling that Alba understands English proficiently. Instead of having Alba assimilate to English, it is Michael and Rafael (and audiences) who accommodate. Michael learns to recite his wedding vows in Spanish with Alba’s help, suggesting that he values the Villanueva women’s language preferences (Episode 22, Season 2). And Rafael understands Alba’s elaborate instructions during Black Friday shopping (Episode 7, Season 2). These moments signal to viewers that other characters understand that linguistic identity is part of ethnic identity. Anzaldúa writes, “ethnic identity is twin skin to linguistic identity –I am my language. Until I can take pride in my language, I cannot take pride in myself” (2012, p.  81). JTV signals that the Villanuevas live in a world where their cultural citizenship and belonging to the Latinx community is possible. Cultural citizenship includes “a broad range of activities of everyday life through which Latinos and other groups claim space in society and eventually rights” (Flores & Benmayor, 1997, p. 15). The coexistence of English and Spanish in JTV legitimizes Alba’s linguistic identity and the complexity of Jane and Xiomara’s linguistic preferences. Anzaldúa (2012) writes that attempts to cut out or tame wild tongues, or speaking Spanish, in schools, including “English-only” laws, are attacks on freedom of expression and a violation of the First Amendment (p. 76). Incorporating Spanish and refusing to translate for others requires that English-language speakers, Michael and Rafael, acknowledge and respect, a component of cultural citizenship (Flores & Benmayor, 1997, p.  38), Alba’s linguistic and cultural citizenship. Alba’s tongue is legitimized in this space because she does not have to accommodate English speakers and gets to speak the language that makes her most comfortable. The only other television show that has truly been bilingual is PBS’s ¿Qué Pasa, USA? (1977–1980). JTV follows ¿Qué Pasa, USA?’s legacy in that “Spanish is not merely sprinkled occasionally into the story to flavor it, nor is any viewer treated as an outsider by being asked to read subtitles. Spanish and English (and Spanglish) share the spotlight” (Delgado & Veraldi, 2007, p. 52). The strategic use of Spanish reflects the power and advantage of being bilingual6 over those who are not. 6  Jane and Rafael are concerned because Mateo’s speech is not developing as fast as his peers in preschool. They take him to see the pediatrician and she asks if Mateo is part of a bilingual household. Jane says that she and her grandmother speak to him in Spanish. The pediatrician reassures Jane that children in bilingual households might see delayed linguistic

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In subsequent seasons, Alba’s linguistic acculturation of English increases. This is especially true when she becomes a citizen. Alba gives a speech in English focused on the U.S. motto of “E pluribus unum,” or “out of many, one,” at her surprise citizenship party (Episode 17, Season 4). Moreover, Alba speaks English at work and seamlessly reverts to speaking Spanish with Jorge and other hotel guests. Alba’s great-grandson Mateo is a fourth-generation American and, like Jane,7 grows up in a bilingual home. Even though he is a toddler, Mateo is aware of the hatred of immigrants when he tells Jane about his concerns that “Bisa,” short for bisabuela or great-grandmother, might be “taken away” (Episode 17, Season 3). JTV more accurately portrays Latinx households’ negotiation of linguistic acculturation that is consistent with research confirming that the use of Spanish as a primary language drops with each generation but survives into the third generation (Taylor et al., 2012). Like the Villanuevas, my family lived in a multi-generational home when we arrived at the United States. The majority of first-generation American immigrants in my family are monolingual Spanish speakers who understand basic English. When we lived with my grandparents and started grade school, speaking English at home was a sign of disrespect to our elders and speaking Spanish at school was frowned upon. English was equated with the public sphere, education, and upward mobility, and Spanish was equated with the private sphere, cultural roots, and stigma from outsiders. Rosaldo cautions that “relying uncritically and exclusively on personal testimony” is a methodological error that should be avoided. Instead, local situations and experiences must be informed by structural factors such as white supremacy (Flores & Benmayor, 1997, pp. 32–36). “English-only” instruction shaped my relationship to my native tongue in detrimental ways growing up. I continued to uphold the dichotomy of English as the language of “knowledge,” and the public sphere, through my education in the U.S. This is a relationship of trauma where I would not and could not speak Spanish in high school and university courses but excelled through written Spanish. My parents and grandparents’ abilities. However, their vocabulary suddenly expands (Episode 9, Season 3). This moment is important because JTV suggests that teaching children multiple languages is good. 7  In a flashback scene, Alba helps young Jane come up with an acronym, “CALMA,” to recite when she is angry. Young Jane comes up with “Cheese, Abuela, Lists, and Mr. Monkey.” Alba asks Jane about the other “A” and Jane tells her Abuela that she prefers “CALM.” In English. Here, Alba is accommodating of Jane’s growing acculturation of English (Episode 8, Season 2).

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privileging of Spanish at home represents linguistic resistance to white supremacy. However, speaking English at home was necessary for us to continue to develop our language skills and signaled our increasing acculturation. Our elders instinctively began to rely on us for translation and interpretation skills. This responsibility forced us to grow up quickly. Just like Jane, I grew up worrying about my mom and my grandparents being discriminated against due to language barriers. As such, I empathize deeply with young Jane when she anxiously learns about diabetes for her Abuela (Episode 2, Season 1). I recall being my mother’s legal and medical interpreter on many occasions and being chosen to stay at the hospital with my grandpa during his hand surgery as a teenager. I still help my grandparents with Medicare and Social Security paperwork. To some degree, those of us who are the children of immigrants, and those who are first-generation Americans, will always be the bridge between languages and cultures for our elders and future generations. Theories addressing language brokering recognize translation as a communal practice in fostering meaningful interactions with communities and institutions (Katz, 2014). This practice is “a social, cognitive, cultural, and linguistic phenomenon” where children and parents, who function as interlocutors in negotiating meaning, co-create knowledge by “pooling various linguistic, cognitive, and social skills” (Eksner & Orellana, 2012, p. 199). Language brokering can also be part of adult meaning-making regarding childhood experiences through narrative analyses (Orellana & Phoenix, 2017). First-generation Americans who came to the United States as children have the advantage of linguistic citizenship in both the diaspora and the “new” nation, and this linguistic in-betweenness allows us/them to occupy and claim space at the crossroads of cultural citizenship. Culture is and can be passed on through generations in many ways but language remains one of the crucial vessels for continuity in cultural citizenship. Acculturation via language provides immigrants and their children the opportunity to attain educational capital. The next section turns toward an analysis of JTV’s portrayal of educational capital and upward mobility. This section addresses my identification with the protagonist Jane Villanueva, whom I argue is the first Latina in broadcast television that fills the void in beauty, intelligence, and morality that Katzew (2011) describes regarding Latinas in television.

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American Jane: Acculturation and Upward Mobility for Immigrants and Their Children One of my earliest childhood memories is tied to education and my desire to go to school in my older sister’s place. I could not wait to go to school because I loved learning and asking questions. Learning English quickly was foundational for my desire to learn everything I could about my new home. Like Amaya (2007), I draw on my educational capital to perform and rewrite my self depending on the audience. Writing about citizenship in JTV connected the theoretical to the material world for me. Through higher education, I can name the structural forces influencing my self-­ concept. Education has been the most important capital or tool in radically changing my life outcomes. This section highlights how JTV draws on Spanish-language telenovelas to foster a sense of cultural citizenship for the Latinx diaspora. In JTV, Spanish is also closely tied to the construction of Latinx identity as diasporic and transnational through the Villanueva women’s consumption of entertainment media. Alba, Xiomara, and Jane love to watch telenovelas. While they watch, Alba gives Jane a “cachito de grilled cheese” (Episode 1, Season 1). The telenovelas the Villanueva women watch together are all in Spanish. This early representation of characters on television watching telenovelas does a couple of things. First, it establishes some Latina cultural citizenship for the Villanuevas by the fact that they are watching telenovelas and not an English-language US program (such as a soap opera8). That the three women are shown in the pilot watching it together is also significant. This collective viewing has been interpreted as an activity enabling Latinxs to maintain connections to cultural heritage, habits, traditions, and common experiences, such as music, places, and names of the past, to discuss with others (Rose, 2019, p. 1093). Vicky 8  Though, it is important to note that the Villanuevas are also clearly familiar with U.S. soap operas. In a flashback scene, young Jane asks why telenovelas end when Days of Our Lives is “on season 34.” Alba explains:

Las telenovelas son diferentes, mi amor. Siempre tienen un final. Pero es un final feliz. Los buenos siempre obtienen lo que se merecen. ¡Y casi siempre terminan en una boda! : Telenovelas are different, my love. They always have an ending. But it’s a happy one. The good people [always] get what they deserve. And there’s usually a wedding! (Episode 19, Season 5).

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Mayer (2003) explores Mexican American girls’ reception of a telenovela and their re-interpretations of their shifting identities, acculturation, insider/outsider status, and in-betweenness in the United States while maintaining connections to Mexico. Watching telenovelas is interpreted as a social activity that helps families and communities bond in a multicultural diaspora (Quinn-Puerta, 2019, p. 174). Although the act of watching telenovelas may be perceived as part of the private sphere and tied to domesticity, JTV’s telenovelas, and the genre, help Latinxs claim space in the public sphere in ways that generate cultural, political, and even linguistic citizenship within the Villanueva’s Miami. In this way, JTV’s reliance on the genre accentuates its progressive ideology regarding Latinx citizenship. Jane’s upward mobility is secured through her ability to harness educational and cultural capital to become a writer in the culture industries. It is important to note, though, that the Latinx characters in JTV have more access to certain spaces that are otherwise not readily available to most Latinxs in the United States. Acknowledging the limits of identification, including exploring the ways in which the narrative or situations presented in a text “construct[s] a reality that is impossible to emulate in real life,” is part and parcel to identification analysis (Silverblatt et al., 1999, p. 84). Quinn-Puerta (2019) argues that Jane is a neoliberal citizen and does not represent the average Latina (pp.  171–172). Citing a 2016 Pew Research Center report on race and inequality (pp. 19–20), Quinn-Puerta points out that Latinxs finish college at less than half the rate of whites, and only 67 percent complete high school compared to 93 percent of whites (2019, p.  172). Interpretations of JTV from an outsiders’ (non-­ Latinx) perspective might be distorted (Quinn-Puerta, 2019, p. 174). The over-correction for the “hot” Latina stereotype may have led to the emergence of television portrayals of the “Latina genius,” of which Jane and Betty were foundational for subsequent shows, such as One Day At A Time (2017–2020) and Diary of a Future President (2020–) (Castillo, 2020). JTV follows Ugly Betty’s (2006–2010) tradition of establishing a secret dialogue with Latinx audiences as a way to disconnect from the mainstream through language, diasporic media, and cultural references, among them special appearances by popular Latinx actors and musicians (Avila-­ Saavedra, 2010, p. 141). JTV’s portrayal of Latinx characters’ adept consumption of a variety of media texts from popular Spanish-language U.S., transnational, and English-language media suggests the Villanueva women

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challenge Western notions of the nation-state and national identity. Diasporas are located “within and across [nation-states] -they intersect without necessarily splitting” and popular media are crucial fostering and sustaining connections to a homeland that may be impossible to reclaim without displacing other peoples (Karim, 2010, p. 406). With the growth of transnational communication and the global flow of cultural texts, diasporas challenge assimilation into national populations (Karim, 2010, pp. 395–396). The irony, Karim (2010) claims, is that globalization has facilitated the movement of goods and services but increased policing of human migration via strict immigration policies (p. 398). JTV was labeled a dramedy, a hybrid or cross between a drama and comedy, because it relies on telenovela tropes for comedic and satirical effects (Martinez, 2015). The show embraces elements of romance, love triangles, fantasy, and drama as part of the larger narrative focused on Jane’s life. However, the show adds another layer by creating a micro-­ narrative through The Passions of Santos,9 a fictitious Spanish-language telenovela watched by the Villanueva women and JTV’s non-Latinx characters.10 This collective11 viewing of telenovelas is interpreted as a cultural practice12 and signifier of diasporic Latinx identity for several reasons. The Spanish telenovelas referenced in JTV are capable of uniting diverse

9  This telenovela became so popular with viewers that The CW and writers of JTV agreed to release a short novel to address how the protagonists, Santos and Blanca, met. The network decided on a chapter-by-chapter release in both English and Spanish through the online platform Wattpad (Jarvey, 2015). 10  Petra and Magda watch the episode where Rogelio, cast as Santos, calls himself the President of Ecuaduras del Norte (Episode 6, Season 1). Ivan Rogachevsky, sent to blackmail Petra and Magda by Petra’s Czech ex-boyfriend Miloš Dvor ̌áček, watches in Czech (Episode 7, Season 1) and later watches in Spanish with the hope of learning how to escape from Santos, who is trapped in a dungeon by pirates (Episode 9, Season 1). Petra shows Lachlan Moore, her ex-fiancé, the telenovela and books the Paloma awards’ after-party at the Marbella (Episode 8, Season 1). This awards show is “the Oscars of the telenovela genre” and Marlene Favela, from Gata Salvaje (2002–2003) and Los Herederos del Monte (2011), wins best supporting actress (Episode 9, Season 1). 11  The Villanuevas celebrate Mother’s Day with pints of ice cream and binge-watching telenovelas (Episode 20, Season 2). 12  Alba tells Jorge that she loves telenovelas particularly because they helped her feel connected to Xiomara. Alba says, “Xiomara and I used to fight so much. But even when I feel most distant from her, we had this time, every night, when we were together and we were both thinking about the same thing” (Episode 18, Season 3).

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nationalities through language and Jaime Camil, himself an international telenovela star, is positioned as an intertextual13 character. Through Rogelio’s telenovela14 life, JTV draws on over-the-top drama and outlandish plots typical of the genre  (Sava, 2017). Audiences are expected to follow The Passions of Santos and realize the larger narrative draws on similar tropes suggesting “Jane’s life was now the stuff of telenovelas” (Episode 1, Season 1). The Villanueva women also reference other telenovelas, such as La Reina del Sur15 (2011) (Episode 14, Season 1), Corazon Salvaje (1992–1994) (Episode 16, Season 1), and La Usurpadora (1998) (Episode 5, Season 3). The Villanueva women’s consumption and understanding of Spanish-language media signal moments of identification with Latinx audiences. Aside from telenovelas, Alba’s favorite television show is Sabado Gigante (1962–2015). And discussion of Jennifer Lopez’s portrayal of Selena Quintanilla in the movie Selena is off limits with Xiomara (Episode 11, Season 1). Many Latinxs likely know a grandmother or mother, or someone who loved watching Don Francisco on Sabado Gigante, the longest-running variety show which aired for five decades (Rockwell, 2015). Selena16 is an iconic figure for many Latinxs, particularly those of Mexican ancestry. JTV also appeals to Latinx audiences through guest appearances from Cuban-American music and entertainment icons Gloria and Emilio Estefan (Episode 3, Season 3) and literary icon Isabel Allende (Episode 6, Season 4). Xiomara is not religious, but if she were, her God would be 13  In television studies, subtle and not-so-subtle nods to other texts are known as intertextual references. Through intertextuality, audiences can place a text in a chronology of other television shows. More importantly, intertextual references can add depth, meaning, and even comedic effect to a text. As a method of analysis, intertextuality helps us better explore how audiences familiar with multiple texts being invoked might reinterpret the main text (Gray & Lotz, 2012). 14  Rogelio moves on to other telenovelas, including Pasión Intergalactica (Episode 14, Season 1), Tiago a Través del Tiempo (Episode 10–13, Season 2), and Los Viajes de Guillermo (Episode 15–16, Season 3; Episode 6, Season 4). He also stars in The De La Vega-Factor Factor reality series with Darci Factor (Episode 10, Season 3). 15  La Reina del Sur’s Kate Del Castillo makes a guest appearance as Rogelio De La Vega’s ex-wife Luciana Leon (Episode 3, Season 2). 16  Aparicio’s (2003) study on Latinidad through Quintanilla, and Lopez’ embodiment of the singer on the movie, addresses the importance of Selena’s life and the question of authenticity. Aparicio advances an oppositional and decolonizing Latinidad by addressing the commonalities shared by both women, including similar historical experiences and being objectified through cultural gazes by “dominant, patriarchal forces, in the public space” (2003, p. 94).

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Mexican pop star, and guest actress, Paulina Rubio (Episode 1, Season 1). Crossover narratives work against Rubio even as she positions herself as a cosmopolitan citizen and is “symbolically contained, domesticated, and categorized,” thereby highlighting how the local level is the site where hybrid identities are suspect and policed (Moreman, 2008, pp. 109–110). JTV also draws on other highly recognizable Latinxs and Spanish artists, such as Juanes17 and David Bisbal,18 for greater appeal. JTV equally draws on popular music icons familiar to most domestic audiences including Nelly (Episode 4, Season 2), Britney Spears (Episode 5, Season 2), Christina Perri (Episode 6, Season 1), and Bruno Mars (Episode 22, Season 2). This combination of musical influences from transnational Latinx and U.S. artists suggests that multiple worlds of entertainment converge for the “Villanueva diaspora” (Episode 17, Season 2). Diasporas are transnational groups that emphasize “diasporic connections facilitated by various media and the simultaneous consumption of the same content by members” where one’s identification with a particular diaspora is “based on an imaginary of a shared ancestry that may be difficult to substantiate” (Karim, 2010, p. 396). JTV assumes diasporic audiences, including first-generation Americans and their descendants, are intelligent and that their consumption of popular media is inherently hybrid. The text not only does this with the aforementioned music artists, but also with intertextual references to other popular television shows. For example, Xiomara and Rogelio used to watch Downton Abbey (2010–2015) when they were a couple (Episode 13, Season 2). Jane references Orange Is The New Black19 (2013–2019) when selecting cribs for Mateo (Episode 14, Season 1). Jane’s best friend Lina Santillan and ex-boyfriend Michael are fans of The Good Wife (2009–2016) (Episode 13, Season 2) and Scandal (2012–2018) (Episode 14, Season 2). Rogelio loves Mad Men (2007–2015) so much that he pitches a Spanish adaptation titled Hombres Locos (Episode 6, Season 2). JTV signals that the Villanueva women’s media diet is hybrid and 17  JTV’s title song, Una Flor, is performed by Juanes who also guest stars as music producer Elliot Lantana (Episode 8, Season 1). 18  Bisbal also makes a guest appearance and performs Esclavo de sus besos at Calle 8 (Episode 16, Season 1). 19  Diane Guerrero, who portrays Lina Santillan in JTV, is also part of the OITNB cast. Guerrero is also an immigration reform activist and co-author of In the country we love: My family divided (2016) with Michelle Burford detailing her experience in being ripped apart from her undocumented parents who were deported to Colombia while in high school.

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complex. And while most audiences in the United States are increasingly consuming media from all over the globe, JTV positions Latinxs and other first-generation Americans as adept consumers of domestic, transnational, and global popular media. My family’s media diet mirrors the Villanueva’s complex taste in entertainment. My sisters and I would watch telenovelas with my paternal grandmother when we lived in Mexico. I remember watching La Usurpadora (1998) and getting a bowl haircut like the protagonist Paulina. Or Luz Clarita (1996), a telenovela about an orphan girl who searches for her mother. Once in the United States, we continued to watch telenovelas with the older women in our family. Cable has always been a luxury that was out of reach in our low-income household. We began to consume more English-language media, thanks to the public library and school trips to movie theaters, playhouses, and symphony halls. We watch shows and films on Netflix, HBO, and other subscription-based services. We especially love series produced in Spain, such as El Tiempo Entre Costuras (2013–2014), Velvet (2014–2016), and Gran Hotel20 (2011–2013). Like many Latinxs, especially those of Mexican ancestry, our music interests range from Latin pop, salsa, and regional Mexicana to reggaeton, rock, and rap from artists of various nationalities. In JTV, the Villanuevas are depicted as upwardly mobile and “do not take handouts” (Episode 11, Season 1). Alba’s undocumented status does not preclude her from working to support her family. Once Alba’s immigration status is adjusted, Xiomara reminds Alba that being a permanent resident means she is no longer vulnerable and can get a different job. Alba has been a home healthcare worker because she was trained as a nurse in Venezuela (Episode 17, Season 4). Alba gets a new job with benefits as a shop assistant at Seashells (Episode 4, Season 3). And Xiomara did not go to college, but she is depicted as an entrepreneur who teaches children’s dance classes out of the Villanueva home (Episode 7, Season 1), eventually opens a dance studio (Episode 6, Season 3), and gets into nursing school (Episode14, Season 5). And Jane has not one, but three jobs. She is a waitress (Episode 2, Season 1), a Catholic High School student teacher (Episode 6, Season 1), and a writer’s room intern for Rogelio’s telenovela (Episode 11, Season 1).

20  Eva Longoria Baston’s adaptation of the Spanish original premiered on ABC in June 2019 (Shattuck, 2019).

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The Villanueva household is, at worst, working-class relying on public transportation (Episode 1, Season 1) and shopping at Target (Episode 6, Season 1). At best, the Villanuevas are aspiring for middle-class status with a graduate student who holds a teaching assistantship and scholarships (Episode 20, Season 2). Jane pads her financial budget with Michael (Episode 4, Season 3) due to residual fear of financial insecurity because, as Alba suggests to Xiomara in a flashback scene, “los sueños no pagan las cuentas” or “dreams don’t pay the bills” (Episode 9, Season 1). Unlike Xiomara, who dreams of, and actively pursues, becoming a singer, Jane fears following her dream of becoming a writer and opts to be more practical by completing21 an undergraduate degree in education at a college close to home to avoid student loans (Episode 14, Season 1). Like many millennials, Jane does not decide, nor can she afford, to move out of her abuela’s house until after Mateo is born (Episode 11, Season 5). First-­ generation Americans are cautious but brave in the pursuit of what Mexicans describe, according to Amaya, as “hacerla (to make it)” (2007, p. 198). Jane draws on educational capital, including having studied in an English graduate program, and cultural capital, her knowledge of the Latin American literary tradition of magical realism (Episode 6, Season 4) and telenovelas, which are part of a global enterprise (Miller, 2010), to become a cultural translator in her production of several texts in the culture industries. Jane writes a book (which makes JTV a meta-narrative where the show is actually a narration of the book) about a “big multigenerational story with romance and drama and heartache and crime, even” (Episode 17, Season 4). She blends genres and centers Alba’s immigration story,22 her relationship with her mother Xiomara, and her telenovela love story with Michael and Rafael in her book. In doing so, Jane and the series represent Latinxs as integral members of various communities. For example, Alba goes to church regularly and makes a friend at physical therapy 21  Jane misses her college graduation due to a necessary medical test to make sure the baby is healthy. This episode treats Jane’s accomplishment as a collective triumph and dream come true for the Villanueva women, as it took Jane six years to graduate (Episode 13, Season 1). 22  Through interviewing Alba (Episode 3, Season 3), reading her Abuela’s correspondence with her sister (Episode 5, Season 3), and studying her old photographs (Episode 3, Season 3), Jane conducts research on the Villanueva family tree, connects with distant relatives, and finds inspiration for a novel. She draws on elements of the telenovela genre to texture her writing and has a breakthrough when Alba gives a speech about citizenship and “making one out of many” (Episode 17, Season 4).

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who happens to be a priest (Episode 18, Season 1). She also makes a new friend, and eventual husband, in Jorge, her manager at Seashells (Episode 4, Season 3), and many of her friends attend her surprise citizenship party (Episode 17, Season 4). Xiomara has a group of parents whose children are in her dance class (Episode 7, Season 1). She also has a group of loyal fans from the local bar who show up to her performance at the Marbella (Episode 3, Season 3). Jane has a group of co-worker friends at the Marbella (Episode 4, Season 2), joins a romance writer’s group (Episode 16, Season 1) and is part of a graduate student community (Episode 6, Season 2). The aforementioned examples suggest the Villanuevas have deep roots in many communities and defy the Latino Threat Narrative that suggests Latinxs isolate themselves from the mainstream (Chavez, 2013, p. 53). The Villanuevas enjoy cultural citizenship, which is also tied to creating spaces “where the people feel ‘safe’ and ‘at home,’ where they feel a sense of belonging and membership” (Flores & Benmayor, 1997, p. 15). Amaya (2013) and Báez (2018) caution that cultural and symbolic appeals to citizenship have limitations. The most important is that legal status, of which birthright citizenship and naturalized citizenship offer the most protection under the juridical system, governs our relationship with the government and each other. Both Amaya (2013) and Báez (2018) recognize that media play an important role in our understanding of citizenship, broadly defined. Amaya (2013) highlights the role of citizenship excess in media through the power of the law and regulations in systematically placing Latinxs at a disadvantage. Báez (2018) notes the importance and power of media “as an authority that legitimizes who and what is important” so that “Latina/os’ place within the nation is often thought to be not only imagined by media, but also secured by media” (p. 3).

A Mixed-Status Household: #IMMIGRATIONREFORM and Naturalization The complexity of the Villanueva women’s shared identity is exemplified by the issue of immigration. Jane’s grandmother is a home healthcare worker (Episode 2, Season 3) who is afraid of run-ins with the government. Alba scolds Xiomara for forgetting to pay a parking ticket and

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explains to young Jane that migrating with her husband Mateo23 from Venezuela to “Norte America” wasn’t “exactly allowed.” When Jane asks why, Xiomara adds, “stupid immigration laws.” Xiomara never got another parking ticket. And Jane withdraws the medical malpractice lawsuit against Rafael’s sister Luisa Alver, the doctor responsible for the artificial insemination, after Alba gets nervous about the civil court case (Episode 8, Season 1). And when Alba is hospitalized because Petra Solano’s, the ex-­ wife to Jane’s baby-daddy Rafael, mother Magda Andel pushes her down the stairs, Jane’s grandmother is threatened with a specific type of deportation (Episode 10, Season 1). Alba’s doctor tells Xiomara that the hospital knows her mother is undocumented and may rely on medical repatriation to deport her to Venezuela. This incident becomes an educational moment because not all audiences might be familiar with immigration laws. Even Xiomara is unaware of the legality and reality of medical repatriation, saying, “she hasn’t even opened her eyes yet and they want to deport her? I mean, how can they do this?” (Episode 10, Season 1). Here, JTV’s narrative on immigration takes a decisive stance24 because the narrator and on-screen graphics read: “YES, THIS REALLY HAPPENS.  LOOK IT UP. #IMMIGRATIONREFORM” (Episode 10, Season 1). Alba is spared from medical repatriation because Jane’s then-boyfriend and police detective Michael calls the hospital and claims that Alba is “an important witness25 in an ongoing investigation” (Episode 12, Season 1). Jane confesses to Michael that Alba is quiet and shy around him because she is undocumented and cops make her nervous (Episode 2, Season 2). Alba’s fear of law enforcement is representative of the first-generation American experience of mixed-status households. Mixed status refers to the unique household or family structure of undocumented immigrants and their children in the United States. A mixed-status household is a home where one of the parents is undocumented and at least one child is 23  Alba tells Jane that her husband, Mateo, came from a wealthy family in Venezuela. Mateo’s family had investments in Venezuela’s oil industry (Episode 8, Season 1). Alba tells Jane, “he gave up everything he had to move to this country. He worked so hard. And all for me because I wanted to come here” (Episode 13, Season 1). 24  This episode aired on January 19, 2015, a day prior to then-President Obama’s State of the Union Address. The show’s hashtag surged on Twitter following the episode, which drew the show’s largest audience, 1.4 million viewers, at the time (Swann, 2015). 25  However, this subplot is “too good to be true” because hospitals have complete discretion in enforcing medical repatriation (Swann, 2015).

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a U.S. citizen. According to the Pew Research Center, 37 percent of undocumented adults were part of mixed-status families in 2008. The Pew Research Center estimated, a year later, that 5.1 million children (both U.S.-born and foreign-born) were part of mixed-status homes (Passel & Taylor, 2014). My father was an undocumented immigrant for two decades. In fact, I do not remember meeting him until I was a four-year-old. This exercise in recalling memories, however flawed and distorted they may be, is part of what makes autohistoria-teoría productive, according to Pitts’ analysis of Anzaldúa’s corpus (2016, p. 361). Anzaldúa writes about the act, or process, of “dismembering and re-membering herself.” This process is terrifying, akin to myth-making in “re-membering one’s personal and collective stories,” and constitutes the “creative and painful side of autohistoria-­ teoría” (Pitts, 2016, p. 361). For me, it means remembering the trauma and fear surrounding my family’s immigration story. My parents left my two older sisters and me with my paternal grandmother in Mexico for some time. My separation anxiety stems from being separated from them during my childhood. He voluntarily left the United States in 2008. His departure triggered the realization that I lived the mixed-status experience since reuniting with my parents in May of 1998. Because my parents were not married at the time, my father did not gain legal status when my mom did. It would take our family a painful eight years to obtain permanent residency for my father in August of 2016. Those eight years in between turned our family into experts on immigration law. When Alba risks being deported by applying for her green card (Episode 2, Season 2), the narrative also addresses the nearly impossible standards set for sponsors and how vulnerable undocumented immigrant populations are in society. Alba’s lawyer suggests Xiomara’s criminal record, for shoplifting jewelry in her teens, might complicate Alba’s path to legal status (Episode 5, Season 2). The Villanuevas get Xiomara’s former boyfriend to testify that it was him who shoplifted. Alba obtains her green card in time to celebrate the family’s first Christmas with Jane’s son Mateo (Episode 8, Season 2). Like Xiomara, my mother had to be cautious and law-abiding in order to become my father’s sponsor for a legal pardon. My father’s inability to keep a job in 2008, due to the implementation of E-Verify laws, and his voluntary departure from the country, because he

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could no longer work with a fake social security number,26 transformed our family into a single-parent household overnight. Even though Xiomara is a second-generation American, I identify with her concern for her mother’s undocumented status. Like Xiomara (and Jane), I worried about my father being stopped by police and turned over to U.S. Immigration and  Customs  Enforcement (ICE), which was created in 2003 after the passage of the Homeland Security Act (U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, 2020).  In grade school, I learned that my father was undocumented because he was in a car accident. Even though the accident was not his fault, he did not stick around for the police to show up. This was a lesson in the vulnerability and precarity of the condition of illegality, described by Chavez (2013, p. 28), which made my father susceptible to abuse and neglect by those tasked with serving and protecting everyone regardless of immigration status. The effects of this condition spilled over onto our lives and influenced our relationship to the state and law enforcement. Alba’s co-worker at Seashells, the Marbella gift shop, Jorge Antonio Garcia reveals he is an undocumented immigrant who has been scammed out of his savings by an immigration attorney when Alba tries to get him to march with her and Jane in protest of recent ICE raids. Initially, Alba also hesitates to protest with Jane (Episode 17, Season 3). This hesitation is indicative of the residual fear of newly documented immigrants to exercise their rights. Alba remains afraid of changing immigration laws (Episode 17, Season 4) even after she applies for naturalization (Episode 15, Season 4). Alba proposes marriage to Jorge after finding out that his mother is dying in Mexico and he cannot travel to see her during her “Citizenship Day” surprise party. During a flashback scene, we learn that the Villanuevas came to the U.S. legally. Twenty-three-year-old Alba surprises her husband Mateo with news that she is pregnant during a Fourth of July27 celebration. They decide to let their visas expire and live permanently in the United States (Episode 17, Season 4). Alba’s journey to citizenship lasts over 40 years (also noted in Carlin, 2015). 26  Much like my father, Jorge reveals to Alba that he has been working at the Marbella with a social security number that belongs to one of his cousins (Episode 17, Season 3). This is another moment where the narrative in JTV complicates issues of immigration and might generate identification with immigrants who share this experience. 27  Four years later, Mateo and Alba are celebrating the same holiday with arepas, and their toddler Xiomara curiously says, “it’s the Fourth of July, why are they eating hotdogs?” (Episode 17, Season 4).

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Much like the Villanuevas, everyone in my family is distrusting of the police. We avoid interactions with law enforcement even though we are not susceptible to deportation. Our family is aware of the dehumanization of Latinxs at the hands of the state through the 2010 anti-immigrant Arizona Senate Bill 1070. The law effectively made being undocumented a state crime, required that immigrants carry documentation proving their legal status, prohibited people from hiring or knowingly transporting undocumented immigrants, and, among other provisions, allowed law enforcement to stop and detain people based on the suspicion of being undocumented (Ariz. 2010; Republic Staff, 2020). My father’s undocumented experiences, our collective fear of him being deported, and the burden of being a mixed-status transnational household mirror Alba’s story. The presence of the “marriage-for-a-green card” trope (Amaya, 2013, p. 174) with Alba and Jorge parallels my parents’ decision to get married so that my father could possibly return to the U.S. In true telenovela style, my mother and father had a beach wedding in Sonora, Mexico, in May 2013. Unlike Alba and Jorge, my parents’ story does not have a fairytale ending. Our family has been unable to repair the damage caused as a result of being a mixed-status household for eight years. The effect of immigration policy on the flesh, psyche, and spirit is sometimes irreversible even when the nation-state has removed impediments to family reunification. Even when families are not physically violently separated by ICE, these policies still mark the body and are symbolically violent. These policies not only affect the undocumented body but also everyone else around them. Even though my family has escaped the condition of illegality, the effects of this former status will mark us for generations. JTV has helped me cope with this ending and is part of that process of reclaiming and rewriting my self and my family’s story. Our family, like the Villanuevas, learned to internalize and interpret the law. We have been fortunate in benefitting from decades-long immigration policies such as President Ronald Reagan’s Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 (IRCA), which predates my birth but secured my grandfather’s ability to adjust his undocumented status to permanent residency under the amnesty program that covered over a million immigrants. Chavez (2013) writes that IRCA was ineffective in its goal of ending undocumented immigration (p. 8). A decade later, Congress passed the Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act (IIRAIRA) of 1996. This law made it more difficult for undocumented immigrants to adjust their status, intensified and streamlined deportations,

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and placed responsibility on sponsors to bear the burden of paying for public benefits used by immigrants (Chavez, 2013, pp.  8–9). IIRAIRA also punishes undocumented immigrants who remain in the U.S. for over a year by imposing a ten-year bar from re-entry into the U.S. and forecloses a path to legal status unless a pardon is obtained. JTV’s depiction of the path to legal status may appeal to those who have naturalized and those who dream of becoming citizens in the country they call home. The decision to seek legal status and then naturalize is emblematic of some immigrants’ desire to belong to the national community. Though, it should not be assumed that all immigrants want to pursue citizenship (Amaya, 2007, p.  210). Within and across diasporas, identities are “continuously ‘constructed, debated and reimagined’” and assimilation into the dominant national culture is not uniform nor is it always the goal (Karim, 2010, p. 399). In rewriting my self and my personal myth, I too am confronted by the “‘shadow self,’ which [according to Anzaldúa] includes one’s own forms of ignorance and potential complicity with values that the striving self might not endorse” (Pitts, 2016, p.  361). Centering my identification with first-generation narratives in JTV forces me to “trust the performance of my self” (Amaya, 2007, p. 201) and wrestle with the ways in which the processes of immigration “produce effects that make the body remember” and complicate my Latinidad (Calafell, 2008, p. 71). As the last foreign-born citizen in my family, I am confronted with the reality that I am no more deserving of citizenship than other immigrants. A consequence of naturalization implies complicity with a nation-state system that perpetuates state-sanctioned legalized forms of inequality to my benefit. This rewriting of my story also exposes the guilt I feel in being unable to fully separate myth from reality. My child self remembers having my ontological security shattered and being briefly undocumented in the United States. My adult self does not know with certainty whether this is true. The memory of having been brought to the United States by a human smuggler has never been denied or confirmed by my parents or grandparents. This self-knowledge/ignorance exposes my fear of denaturalization and family separation. Anzaldúa’s “call to ‘remember’ a self through narration” is a confrontation, Pitts (2016) writes, that is part of the transformative process of self-remembering which “offers a seeming paradox: ‘the knowledge that exposes your fears can also remove them’” (p. 361). Alba’s fear of deportation is neatly resolved when she naturalizes. JTV’s portrayal of naturalized citizenship does not acknowledge that

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naturalization is conditional and revocable (Revocation of Naturalization Act of 1994). Naturalized citizens remain a class apart and the nation-state does not forget the “alien number” assigned to foreign-born immigrants. JTV’s portrayal of how lengthy, uncertain, and arduous the process can be is fundamentally about the first-generation American experience of mixed-status families. The show’s narratives on immigration are informed by the experiences of formerly undocumented immigrants.28 JTV helps educate audiences unfamiliar with the path to citizenship through Alba Villanueva and advocacy for “#IMMIGRATIONREFORM” (Episode 10, Season 1). Other than Netflix’s One Day At A Time29 (2017–), JTV is one of the few shows that depict the process immigrants must undergo to obtain citizenship. The show’s legacy lies in its sustained and critical engagement of narratives on immigration through two presidential administrations, “deporter-in-chief” Obama (Corones, 2015; Marshall, 2016) and “build-the-wall” Trump (Time Staff, 2015), that pushed hostile and deadly immigration policies affecting an untold number of mixed-status households. Other television shows have featured narratives of immigration, but none have been sustained through narrative arcs that span more than a few episodes, let alone entire seasons. I see my family in the Villanuevas. I especially see myself in Jane. I am a first-generation college graduate and the first university professor in my extended family. Jane and I are both stubborn, cautious, and believe in the mantra of “family shows up” (Episode 1, Season 4). The Villanuevas’ story is fundamentally about first-, second-, third-, and even fourth-­ generation Americans. In Alba, I see my grandparents and the sacrifices 28  Rafael Agustín, one of the writers for JTV, recounts drawing on his experiences as an undocumented immigrant to add depth to the writing for “a more authentic and uniquely American character in Alba” (Agustín, 2018). By disclosing specifics in the writers’ room, such as “the scary yet laughable experience of an immigration official trying to stump” him during his citizenship test and how deeply moving Fourth of July fireworks had been for him, Agustín suggests that immigrant writers must be hired on to more fairly and accurately depict immigrants in television (2018). He critiques the trend in hiring consultants in TV writing rooms as a bandage solution for the systematic lack of diversity in Hollywood (Chan, 2018). 29  The Netflix remake of the original CBS sitcom (1975–1984) narrates the lives of a multigenerational Cuban-American family. Penelope Alvarez, played by Justina Machado, raises two kids with the help of her Cuban mother Lydia Riera, played by Rita Moreno. In the episode “Citizen Lydia,” Lydia and Schneider, their Canadian landlord, undergo the naturalization process (Episode 12, Season 2; Nilles, 2018). Machado and Moreno are recurring actresses in JTV. Machado is Darci Factor, a professional matchmaker and mother of Rogelio De La Vega’s second daughter, and Moreno is Liliana De La Vega, Jane’s “glam-ma.”

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they made so that their children and grandchildren would have a better life. I see the struggle in relying on community so that the grandchildren and great-grandchildren will attend public schools in better districts (Episode 8, Season 4). In the world of the Villanuevas, I see my own family. I see smart and beautiful Latinas who graduate from college, who become lawyers, and accountants. I also see blue-collar workers in construction and hospitality services like my uncles and mother. I see grandchildren and great-grandchildren on a continuum of linguistic complexity. The common thread between the Villanuevas and many immigrant households like mine is the coexistence of both traditions from our ancestors and new, often hybrid, traditions that serve as a bridge between cultures and generations. Our stories are about both resisting and adapting to change so our families can thrive in the diaspora while maintaining connections to our ancestral homeland. In JTV, I see an appeal to a transnational sense of belonging. I see myself, and other Latinxs, as American in the hemispheric sense.

References Agustín, R. (2018, October 17). ‘Jane the Virgin’ writer on how TV can upend distorted immigrant narratives. The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved from https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/tv/tv-news/jane-virgin-writer-how-tv-canupend-distorted-immigrant-stories-1152662/. Amaya, H. (2007). Performing acculturation: Rewriting the Latina/o immigrant self. Text and Performance Quarterly, 27(3), 194–212. https://doi. org/10.1080/10462930701412320. Amaya, H. (2013). Citizenship excess: Latinas/os, media, and the nation. New York: New York University Press. Anzaldúa,  G.  (2012).  Borderlands: The New Mestiza.  United States:  Aunt Lute Books. Anzaldúa, G., & Keating, A.  L. (2015). Light in the dark = Luz en lo oscuro: Rewriting identity, spirituality, reality. Durham: Duke University Press. Aparicio, F. R. (2003). Jennifer as Selena: Rethinking Latinidad in media and popular culture. Latino Studies, 1(1), 90–105. https://doi.org/10.1057/palgrave.lst.8600016. Avila-Saavedra, G. (2010). A fish out of water: New articulations of U.S.-Latino identity on Ugly Betty. Communication Quarterly, 58(2), 133–147. https:// doi.org/10.1080/01463371003773416.

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Baéz, J. (2015). Television for All Women?: Watching Lifetimeʹs Devious Maids. In E. Levine (Ed.), Cupcakes, Pinterest, and Ladyporn: Feminized popular culture in the early Twenty-First Century (pp. 51–70). University of Illinois Press. Báez, J. (2018). In search of belonging: Latinas, media, and citizenship. Urbana; Chicago; Springfield: University of Illinois Press. Beltrán, M. (2016). Latina/os on TV!: A proud (and ongoing) struggle over representation and authorship. In F. L. Aldama (Ed.), The Routledge companion to Latina/o popular culture (pp. 39–49). New York: Routledge. Barrera, V., & Bielby, D. D. (2001). Places, Faces, and Other Familiar Things: The Cultural Experience of Telenovela Viewing among Latinos in the United States. Journal of Popular Culture, 4, 1. Calafell, B.  M. (2008). Performing the Responsible Sponsor: Everything you never wanted to know about immigration post-9/11. In A.  Valdivia (Ed.), Latina/o communication studies today (pp. 69–89). New York, NY: Peter Lang. Carlin, S. (2015, November 11). ‘Jane The Virgin’ deals with immigration reform in an important, subtle way. Bustle. Retrieved from https://www.bustle.com/ articles/123223-­j ane-­t he-­v irgin-­d eals-­w ith-­i mmigration-­r eform-­i n-­a n-­ important-­subtle-­way Castillo, M. (2020, February 26). TV has a new kind of heroine: The Latina genius. Here’s why it matters. Los Angeles Times. Retrieved from https://www. latimes.com/entertainment-arts/tv/story/2020-02-26/ netflix-expanding-universe-ashley-garcia-disney-diary-future-president?_ amp=true&__twitter_impression=true Chan, J. (2018, October 21). Immigrant stereotypes are everywhere on TV. The Atlantic. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/ archive/2018/10/immigrant-por trayals-tv-stereotypes-annenbergstudy-rafael-agustin-jane-the-virgin/573427/ Chavez, L. R. (2013). The Latino threat: Constructing immigrants, citizens, and the nation (2nd ed.). Stanford: Stanford University Press. Corones, M. (2015, February 25). Tracking Obama’s deportation numbers. Reuters. Retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://blogs.reuters.com/data-­ dive/2015/02/25/tracking-­obamas-­deportation-­numbers/ Delgado, H., & Veraldi, L. (2007). ‘Que Pasa, USA?’ (Bilingual programming). Television Quarterly, 37(2), 47–52. Eksner, H. J., & Orellana, M. F. (2012). Shifting in the zone: Latina/o child language brokers and the co-construction of knowledge. Ethos, 40(2), 196–220. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1548-­1352.2012.01246.x. Flores, W. V., & Benmayor, R. (1997). Latino cultural citizenship: Claiming identity, space, and rights. Boston: Beacon Press. Fox News. (2015, October 6). Gina Rodriguez in heated exchange over using Latino heritage as a ‘marketing tool.’ Fox News. Retrieved from https://www.

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foxnews.com/enter tainment/gina-rodriguez-in-heated-exchangeover-using-latino-heritage-as-a-marketing-tool Galarza, L. (2016). Race, gender, and sexuality: Constructions of Latinidad in Jane The Virgin. (Thesis). Retrieved from http://ezaccess.libraries.psu.edu/ login?url=https://www-­p roquest-­c om.ezaccess.libraries.psu.edu/docvie w/2163274959?accountid=13158 Galarza, L. (2020). American Jane?: Jane The Virgin’s political imagination of gendered and transnational Latina/o citizenship. (Dissertation). Pennsylvania State University, University Park, Pennsylvania. Gallegos, N. (2012). Authenticity of “Latinidad”. Concientización: A Journal of Chican@ & Latin@ Experience and Thought, 7(1 & 2), 34–36. Gray, J., & Lotz, A.  D. (2012). Television studies. Cambridge, UK/Malden, MA: Polity. Guerrero, D., & Burford, M. (2016). In the country we love: My family divided (1st ed.). New York: Henry Holt and Company. Hing, B.  O. (2019). American presidents, deportations, and human rights violations : From Carter to Trump. Cambridge University Press. Hoffman, K. (2019, November 17). Arizona is the only state with an English-only education law. It’s time to repeal it. The Arizona Republic. Retrieved from https://www.azcentral.com/stor y/opinion/op-­e d/2019/11/17/ arizona-­only-­state-­english-­only-­law-­we-­repeal-­it/2564675001/ Illegal Immigration Reform and Immigrant Responsibility Act of 1996, Pub. L. No. 104–208, 110 Stat. 3009 (1996). Jacobson, L. (2020, January 29). Arizona board approves more flexibility for Els under English-only law. Education Dive. Retrieved from https://www.educationdive.com/news/arizona-board-approves-more-flexibilityfor-els-under-english-only-law/571185/ Jarvey, N. (2015, October 7). ‘Jane the Virgin’ telenovela ‘The Passions of Santos’ gets elaborate backstory on Wattpad. The Hollywood Reporter. Retrieved from h t t p s : / / w w w . h o l l y w o o d r e p o r t e r . c o m / l i v e -­f e e d / jane-­virgin-­telenovela-­passions-­santos-­830355 Karim, K. H. (2010). Reviewing the ‘National’ in ‘International Communication’: Through the lens of diaspora. In D. K. Thussu (Ed.), International communication: A reader (pp. 393–409). New York, NY: Routledge. Katz, V. S. (2014). Kids in the middle: How children of immigrants negotiate community interactions for their families. Rutgers University Press. Katzew, A. (2011). Shut up! Representations of the Latino/a body in Ugly Betty and their educational implications. Latino Studies, 9(2–3), 300–320. https:// doi.org/10.1057/lst.2011.16. Luther, C.  A., Lepre, C.  R., & Clark, N. (2012). Diversity in U.S. mass media (First ed.). Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Marshall, S. (2016, August 29). Obama has deported more people than any other president. Retrieved March 26, 2017, from http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/ obamas-­deportation-­policy-­numbers/story?id=41715661 Martinez, D. (2015, October 19). Jane the Virgin proves diversity is more than skin deep. The Atlantic. Retrieved from http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2015/10/jane-­the-­virgin-­telenovelas/409696/ Martin-Barbero, J. (1998). De la telenovela al vallenato memoria popular e imaginario de mesa en Colombia. A Contratiempo: Revista de Música En La Cultura, ISSN 2145-1958 , 10(1998), 60–68. Mayer, V. (2003). Living telenovelas/telenovelizing life: Mexican American girls’ identities and transnational telenovelas. Journal of Communication, 53(3), 479–495. https://doi.org/10.1093/joc/53.3.479. Miller, J. L. (2010). Ugly Betty goes global: Global networks of localized content in the telenovela industry. Global Media and Communication, 6(2), 198–217. https://doi.org/10.1177/1742766510373717. Molina-Guzmán, I. (2010). Dangerous curves: Latina bodies in the media. New York: New York University Press. Molina-Guzmán, I. (2016). OscarsSoWhite: How Stuart Hall explains why nothing changes in Hollywood and everything is changing. Critical Studies in Media Communication, 33(5), 438–454. https://doi.org/10.1080/1529503 6.2016.1227864 Molina-Guzmán, I. (2018). Latinas and Latinos on TV: Colorblind comedy in the post-racial network era. Tucson: The University of Arizona Press. Moreman, S.  T. (2008). Hybrid performativity, south and north of the border: Entre la teoría y la materialidad de hibridación. In A. Valdivia (Ed.), Latina/o communication studies today (pp. 91–111). New York, NY: Peter Lang. Murillo Sandoval, S. L., & Escala Rabadán, L. (2013). Fealdad, alteridad y representación de la población Latina en Estados Unidos en el discurso televisivo de Ugly Betty. Comunicación y Sociedad (0188-252X), 20, 113–134. Nilles, B. (2018, January 31). One Day At A Time stars talk that emotional finale. Retrieved from https://www.eonline.com/news/910630/one-day-at-atime-stars-­talk-­filming-­that-­emotional-­season-­2-­finale Orellana, M. F., & Phoenix, A. (2017). Re-interpreting: Narratives of childhood language brokering over time. Childhood, 24(2), 183–196. https://doi. org/10.1177/0907568216671178. Passel, J. S., & Taylor, P. (2014, February 6). Unauthorized immigrants and their U.S.-born children. Pew Hispanic Research Center. Retrieved from https:// w w w. p e w h i s p a n i c . o r g / 2 0 1 0 / 0 8 / 1 1 / u n a u t h o r i z e d - i m m i g r a n t s and-their-us-born-children/ Pitts, A. J. (2016). Gloria E. Anzaldúa’s Autohistoria-teoría as an Epistemology of Self-Knowledge/Ignorance. Hypatia: A Journal of Feminist Philosophy, 31(2), 352–369.

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Preston, J., & Cushman Jr., J.  H. (2012, June 12). Obama to permit young migrants to remain in U.S. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www. nytimes.com/2012/06/16/us/us-to-stop-deporting-some-illegal-immigrants.html Quinn-Puerta, J.  S. (2019). “I deserved to get knocked up”: Sex, class, and Latinidad in Jane the Virgin. In M. Meyers (Ed.), Neoliberalism and the media (pp. 165–175). New York, NY: Routledge. Ramírez Berg, C. (2002). Latino images in film: Stereotypes, subversion, and resistance. Retrieved from https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/pensu/detail. action?docID=3442970 Republic Staff. (2020, March 2). SB 1070: A legacy of fear, divisiveness and fulfillment. The Arizona Republic. Retrieved from https://www.azcentral.com/ story/news/politics/immigration/2020/03/02/ sb-­1070-­legacy-­arizonas-­immigration-­enforcement-­law/4732918002/ Revocation of Naturalization Act of 1994, 8 U.S.C.A. § 1451. Rockwell, R. (2015, April 25). Why ‘Sabado Gigante’ had to end. Aljazeera America. Retrieved from http://america.aljazeera.com/opinions/2015/4/ why-­sabado-­gigante-­had-­to-­end.html Rose, N. (2019). Modern melodrama: How the American telenovela Jane The Virgin updates the sentimental novel. The Journal of Popular Culture, 52(5), 1081–1100. https://doi.org/10.1111/jpcu.12849 S.B. 1070, 49th legislature, 2010 Second Reg. Sess. (Ariz. 2010). Retrieved from https://www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/sb1070s.pdf Sava, O. (2017, October 20). Rogelio shines on a Jane The Virgin that embraces telenovela impulses. Retrieved from https://www.avclub.com/ rogelio-­shines-­on-­a-­jane-­the-­virgin-­that-­embraces-­telen-­1819728496 Shattuck, K. (2019, June 18). ‘Grand Hotel’ is part of Eva Longoria’s mission to ‘produce with purpose’. The New  York Times. Retrieved from https://www. nytimes.com/2019/06/18/arts/television/eva-­longoria-­grand-­hotel.html Silverblatt, A., Finan, B., & Ferry, J. (1999). Approaches to media literacy: A handbook. M.E. Sharpe. Stanley, A. (2015, May 10). ‘Jane the Virgin’ ends a strong first season. The New  York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/11/ arts/television/jane-­the-­virgin-­ends-­a-­strong-­first-­season.html?_r=0 Swann, J. (2015, January 20). ‘Jane the Virgin’ plot a not-so-subtle plea for immigration reform. Retrieved from http://www.takepart.com/article/2015/01/19/jane-virgin-advocated-immigration-reformits-mid-season-premiere Taylor, P., Lopez, M. H., Martínez, J., & Velasco, G. (2012, May 15). Language use among Latinos. Pew Hispanic Research Center. Retrieved from https:// www.pewhispanic.org/2012/04/04/iv-­language-­use-­among-­latinos/

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Time Staff. (2015, June 16). Here’s Donald Trump’s presidential announcement speech. Time. Retrieved from https://time.com/3923128/ donald-­trump-­announcement-­speech/ U.S.  Citizenship and Immigration Services. (2020, August 24). Our History. Retrieved from https://www.uscis.gov/about-­us/our-­history Valdivia, A. N. (2004). Latinas as radical hybrid: Transnationality gendered traces in mainstream media. Global Media Journal—American Edition, 3(4). Retrieved from http://ezaccess.libraries.psu.edu/login?url=https://search-­ pr oquest-­c om.ezaccess.libraries.psu.edu/docview/61750280?acc ountid=13158 Valdivia, A.  N. (2011). The gendered face of Latinidad: Global circulation of hybridity. In R. S. Hedge (Ed.), Circuits of visibility: Gender and transnational media cultures (pp. 53–67). New York: New York University Press.

CHAPTER 13

Mixing and Re-making: The Identity of Second-Generation Bangladeshis in the United States Shafiqur Rahman

Second-generation immigrants demand scholarly attention because, more than any generation, they embody the tensions and contradictions that immigrants must negotiate. A larger question also always underlies in any study of second-generation immigrants: how well will the contemporary second-generation youths assimilate in mainstream U.S. culture? (Kasinitz, Mollenkopf  & Waters, 2004). Thus, the identity of second-generation immigrants becomes a complicated and contested issue. Popular culture plays a significant role in the negotiations second-generation immigrants go through to situate their life and identity in their new homes their parents brought them in (Marwah, 2017). For instance, Bollywood film industry that emerged as a major source of entertainment for Indian and other South Asian diasporas, helps first-generation immigrant viewers satisfy their nostalgia for their old home (Strubel & Josiam, 2016), and second-generation an alternative popular cultural avenue to derive viewing

S. Rahman (*) California State University, San Bernardino, San Bernardino, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_13

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pleasure. Widespread availability of transnational images and sounds in the diaspora helps people in the diaspora to imagine and represent their lives “against rigid configuration of race and nation and ensuing identities” (Dudrah, 2012, p. 66) and opens up possibilities to posit diaspora life as “neither pure nor fixed, and holds in play the experiences of migrant people and successive settled generations in terms of their relationships with countries of origin and countries of settlement as informing each other to produce new sensibilities of being and belonging” (Dudrah, 2012, pp. 66–67). Drawing on my ethnographic fieldwork in New York City and a small town in Southern Illinois, I weave a narrative of a group of second-­ generation Bangladeshi-Americans, addressing their identity articulations. They are expected to reconcile the culture they live with and the culture their parents and ethnic communities try to retain in their life. They also needed to respond to the rhetoric about immigration that routinely emanates from a variety of sources including media (Edwards & Herder, 2012). Second-generation Bangladeshi immigrants find the post-9/11 rhetoric that touches different aspects of their life largely exclusionary, which do not represent their life, identity, and citizenship  (Rahman, 2010). They gravitate toward a cultural category called “desi,” which they think represents their life. They curve a space to situate their religious identity (Muslim identity for my participants) in the transnational context in which different interpretations of their religion vie for legitimacy. While a great majority of Bangladeshis in the United States are first-­ generation immigrants, the number of second-generation is increasing fast. Founded by the students and professionals who migrated from present-­day Bangladesh (then East Pakistan), the community expanded greatly as immigrants from Bangladesh continue to arrive with diversity visas, student visas, and immigrant-sponsored visas. Even though this number is dated and it is difficult to find the accurate figures, observers believe that approximately 500,000 people of Bangladeshi origin live in the United States, most in large cities such as New York (Rahman, 2011). Bangladeshis are part of “new” category of immigrants who arrived in the United States post-Hart-Celler Act of 1965 (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-­ Orozco, 2001) and whose immigration experiences are shaped by “transnational impulses” (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco, 2001, p. 57) in the age of globalization. Like other contemporary second-generation immigrants, Bangladeshis tend to become “American” through a variety of routes. They strive to assimilate but want to retain some aspects of their

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culture and heritage. Their identity is informed by U.S. popular culture and the ethnic heritage that their family and their ethnic community instill in them. Even though the first-generation Bangladeshis strongly associate with Bangladesh and its culture, their children develop fewer frames of reference on Bangladesh despite their parents’ desire and repeated attempts to orient them to Bangladeshi culture. Following Hall’s (1990) assertion that discussion of cultural identity should be situated in the context of representations, I argue that second-­ generation Bangladeshi-Americans had to articulate their identity negotiating media representations of Islam and Muslims in news media and popular culture. A racialized image of Muslim was constructed and presented as a threat of liberal values in the context of U.S. war on terror that largely turned the state into a national security apparatus (Marable, 2001), and employed its resources in policing and managing the target population (brown Muslims) in and outside the United States (Rana & Rosas, 2006). Immigrants who were brown and Muslim had to articulate their identity and citizenship in a representational context in which media’s repeated association between Islam and terrorism forced them to look into their religious identity intensely (Aksoy, 2006). Stereotypical and prejudiced representation of brown Muslims coupled with street harassment and state policing created an “emotive form of internment” (Naber, 2006) that severely impacted their identity and sense of belongingness with the United States. The concept of diaspora that “situates analyses of subject formation and social experiences in a transnational context” (Charusheela, 2007) is usually used to describe the lives of small pockets of populations such as the Bangladeshis in the United States. Contemporary diasporas are connected with their old homes and their co-ethnic communities scattered throughout the world through a transnational media system. Tremendous development in communication technology has brought information and entertainment from the peripheral regions (Sinclair & Cunningham, 2000) to the Western diaspora, creating a new “virtual geography” that offers migration a new kind of experience (Shi, 2005). The home-country media meet the “wider audio-visual representation of minority social groups”  (Dudrah, 2002, p.  163) such as Bangladeshis in the United States, rendering them a new kind of experience (Aksoy & Robins, 2003) of being an immigrant. I wrote this chapter based on re-analysis of interview and fieldwork I conducted in 2008 and 2006 using an ethnographic method. I conducted

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in-depth interviews, focus groups, and participant observations in the Bangladeshi communities in New York City and Carbondale, a small town in Sothern Illinois. In similar studies, researchers employed ethnography as “a site for sharing stories, deepening understandings, promoting discussion about social issues, and provoking social transformations that speak to issues that the individuals and communities who participated in the research considered timely and urgent” (Naber, 2006, p. 238). The data became part of a dissertation Rahman, 2007), and later a book (Rahman, 2011). About a dozen of the 27 males and 21 female participants were second-generation immigrants. I recruited them through their parents and using a snowball sampling technique, and interviewed them in their homes, college campuses, and various sites where community members gathered for social occasions. Ethnographic interviews, considered “the most informal, spontaneous form of interview,”  were conducted in the field. This type of interview is better suited to capture the reflective moments of the participants and provides space to freely articulate their interests and experiences (Lindlof & Taylor, 2002). I utilized unstructured and semi-structured questions in the beginning to obtain a greater breadth of data (Fontana & Frey, 2000), but used a structured protocol in later interviews so that I could compare data across gender, age, and location of the participants.

Pop Culture, Desi, and Negotiating Americanness All but one of my participants strongly associated with a South Asian generic identity, colloquially referred to as desi. Desi in Hindi and Bengali means indigenous or local. Desi refers to young people with ethnic ancestry in the Indian subcontinent and a connection to the cultural practices of the region. Desi is a colloquial term for someone “native to South Asia and one that has taken hold among many second-generation youths in the diasporas of Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Sri Lankan, or even Indo-­ Caribbean descent.” (Maira, 2002, p. 2) To the young people who associate with being desi, this is a cultural category. Sarwar, a 20-year-old college student, defines desi in terms of attachment: “definition of desi culture is you’re very attached to your culture, but live in USA, Canada or UK, or any other country.” Even though young people of South Asian ancestry are included in the category of desi, Bangladeshi youths take ownership of this category. “When we say desi, we want to mean us, the Bangladeshis,” Sarwar says. He further explains: “when I say you stick to your culture, I

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mean going to Jackson Heights, eating desi foods, gossip in a Bangladeshi style, drink tea—not so Americanized.” For 18-year-old college freshman Farhana, who was born in New York City and lived there with her parents her whole life, desi culture is a particular way of life, which is prevalent in young people of Indian subcontinent. According to her, going to Bollywood movies together and attending Eid parties wearing traditional dresses are visible signs of being a desi. As discussed in my book (Rahman, 2011), desi subculture was not there for Bangladeshi youths; they created the cultural space by participating in cultural activities, often with young people of South Asian ethnic origin. Asif, whose father is from India and mother from Bangladesh, said that they were not born as desis; rather they constructed this desi-ness as they lived their lives in the United States. He recalled that in high school he was very anti-desi and had no desi friends as he was a freshman at college. “But what happened when I became a junior—I had one Indian friend who asked me to dance. I thought that was pretty funny—who dances at school? And what happened was I gave it a try. I met a lot more kids. After we met them we became close friends.” College student Nyrene constructed the desi cultural space as she participated in cultural activities in her high school and college with other youths of South Asian origin. “We always had Indian nights together and Diwali and all that kinds of stuff. We could talk about songs and movies and stuff like that,” Nyrene recalled. Shared cultural backgrounds and similar norms in family settings helped them to stay together. Nyrene’s immersion in desi subculture expanded and intensified in college, where she had more friends and more shared activities. Participation in cultural activities gave her a space, a network, and a sense of identity. Embrace of desi identity by well-known popular cultural activists such as Hasan Minhaj gives this identity relevance and visibility in the United States. Hasan Minhaj’s (2020) video on the meek response of South Asian community in the United States  during the protests triggered by the police killing of George Floyd (part of his Patriot Act series aired on Netflix) was viewed 4,418,509 times on YouTube. As an American brown Muslim of Indian ancestry, Minhaj does not shy away from his ethnic and cultural identity; rather he uses this identity to create multiple voices not only to bring America’s attention to discrimination and intimidation leveled toward minorities but also to shed lights on hypocrisies and insensitivities  prevalent within minority communities. For instance, in the 12-minute episode he released after the death of George Floyd in the

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hands of Minneapolis Police, Hasan Minhaj sharply rebuked “his community” for not responding forcefully against police shooting of blacks. He reminded his community that the protests and sacrifices by blacks paved the way for their immigration and civil rights. He points out that many people in South Asian communities celebrate black achievements (such as the presidency of Barak Obama) but do not want their children to associate with blacks. Thus, Hasan promotes desi culture and makes it visible to wider audiences but he also disrupts the relative comfort in which parents of young desis embrace and approve this culture. Besides Minhaj’s recent attempts to situate desi culture within mainstream U.S. culture, volumes of cultural references exist in the diaspora. For instance, all the people I interviewed said that they watched Bollywood movies in their homes with family members and in other settings with their friends. Desi: A Negotiated Happy Space Immigrant parents often struggle to bring back some normalcy in their lives as immigration is often seen as a force that may disrupt family relations and undercut parental authority (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco, 2001, p.  6). To many Bangladeshi-American parents, immersion in American culture in their children’s formative years means pre-marital sex, drugs, partying, and other ill aspects of American high school and college life. Like other first-generation immigrants, Bangladeshis have to walk a tightrope: they encourage their children to excel academically and professionally, pursuing the benefits of U.S. society; at the same time, they want them to maintain the essence of their cultural and family traditions. On one hand, many Bangladeshi parents anecdotally and in formal interviews express the concern that, because they live in an individualistic culture, their children will lose the family relations that they cherish most. On the other hand, desi young people have real needs in their lives—they need to party, date, and seek pleasure through consumption of popular culture. It seems desi culture provides a negotiated space for parents and their young children—they must negotiate these conflicts in their households, which they recognize is more of a generational negotiation (Rahman, 2011). As Maira reported, immersion in desi subculture is a way of reconciling issues that the second-generation young people of the Indian subcontinent face in and outside the home (Maira, p. 189) According to Maira (2002),

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second-generation youths must respond to the social and economic contradictions of (1) the nostalgia of the immigrant parents and the petrifaction of visions of India in the diaspora, (2) the tension between assimilationist and pluralist models of national identity in the United States, and (3) the context of multiculturalist identity politics and ethnic segregation on college campuses. (p. 189)

The young people’s accounts about their gravitation toward desi culture reveal that this cultural space provides them with the opportunities to meet their identity needs in the diaspora. They recognize that they grow up what they call “with a desi touch,” which entails wearing salwar kameez, sari, and other dress; celebrating Eid, Diwali, and other desi festivities; and dancing to Bollywood movie songs in college parties and dance floors of ethnic clubs. They think that their embrace of this desi culture is well-­ received in New Your City where ethnic cultures are visible, practiced, and appreciated. It appears the embrace of desi culture by second-generation Bangladeshi youths makes the negotiation relatively easy for Bangladeshi parents, as desi culture does not challenge the core aspects of Bangladeshi culture, especially family relations. Culturally Cool and Comfortable The embrace of desi culture gives the youths of Bangladeshi descent a coherent meaning in their life in the diaspora. Being desi is an essential part of their identity. This culture is acceptable in their household and it is recognized in other spaces such as college campuses and streets they navigate. This culture appeals to them because it provides an acceptable alternative to U.S. popular culture that they can enjoy, be part of, and fashion as a mode of “being cool.” Their lived experiences inform them that American culture is essentially a blend of cultures, and they think that they contribute to American culture by cultivating their ethnic heritage. This realization gives them a rationale for their embrace of desi subculture, which is essentially a fusion of cultures. They see that their desi identity is being increasingly recognized in the multicultural streets and cultural spaces in New  York City. “People identify us the way we hang out. Everyone has a different look--like Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, and Indians-but as far as school goes, people identify us as desis,” says Abdul, another desi. Desi consciousness acts as a conduit of an awareness of Bangladeshi

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ethnic identity among some Bangladeshi youths, encouraging them to learn more about Bangladesh and what they called their “roots.” As I have discussed in my book (Rahman, 2011),  the young people were enthusiastic, at times celebratory, about desi culture, branding it as “their” culture. They told me in a bragging tone that desi culture was being greeted by Americans. They bragged that Bangladeshis were having a bigger share in this desi subculture, pointing to the fact that Indians and Pakistanis preceded Bangladeshis in migration to the United States and the second-generation Indian and Pakistani youths led the cultural construction of desi. Even though they relate with Bangladeshi culture, they identify more strongly with desi culture because desi has a broader scope and acceptance, and this culture gives them access to a wider network of friends and spaces in college campuses and clubs. They talked at great length about how desi culture was impacting New  York culture: “two-­ three years back they did not know what henna was. … I went to some tattoo places and they do it with henna. … Now-a-days everybody is walking down the streets with fatowas (men’s and women’s tops); that wasn’t a style before, it’s a style now,” Tumpa said. “We stand out because of our tradition, our culture, our religion—everything,” Nadia complemented. “New York City is one of the multicultural cities, plus a desi-populated city. So they watch desis in every place—Subways, schools. … By wearing salwar kameez desis are not feeling uncomfortable … it’s acceptable now,” said Sarwar, assessing how the gaze of the society had changed. “Even in clubs, American clubs, they play desi music sometime,” a visibly proud Sarwar said. “I went to a party—they played Punjabi music. … This is not new to American people—American kids drive and listen to Punjabi music.” Tumpa brought up the infusion of Indian design in American household accessories. “You see in television programs, they teach you how to decorate your house; they have pillows; when you see the design, you know it’s from India.” Bollywood and Desi Culture Bollywood movies are popular in Bangladesh, so it should not surprise anyone that first-generation Bangladeshi-Americans will welcome them in their households. In fact, it’s common in the Bangladeshi-American households that the parents watch Bollywood movies with their children. Bollywood deliberately targets diaspora along with Indian urban centers to maximize the bottom lines (Dudrah, 2012). Bollywood movies draw

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diaspora and transnational storylines to attract viewers in diaspora (Strubel & Josiam 2016). Bollywood movies are increasingly available in the diaspora as many of those movies have cross-over appeals to mainstream non-­ South Asian audiences (Dudrah, 2012). Even though Bollywood movies are produced in India and on many occasions they promote Indian nationalism and values, people of South Asian diaspora can relate with them because of cultural commonalities and their broad-based entertainment appeals. Common themes of mainstream Bollywood movies revolve around family values in India and other South Asian countries. Even though they vary in plots, most of those movies celebrate South Asian cultures and rarely question or problematize the existing power relations in family. As they are geared toward family viewing, they rarely examine unsettling issues such as sexualities. Those movies celebrate desi dress (sari, salwar kameez, etc.), desi food, and desi festivities (wedding and different religious festivities). The second-generation Bangladeshis watch Bollywood movies primarily for pleasure. The movies provide them with conversational cues to relate with their fellow desis. Popular songs and dance moves in Bollywood movies are widely used in desi parties. For 18-year-old college freshman Farhana, being a desi and enjoying Bollywood films go hand in hand. She goes to Bollywood movies with her desi friends. This is a way of life for her. Influence of Hip-Hop As profiled in my book (Rahman, 2011), Shahrier, a 19-year-old college student and self-described poet and philosopher, while appreciated Bengali literature and culture, he was immersed in New York City’s hip-hop culture. His identity was constructed from his association with the African American community and his critical social awareness through the appreciation of hip-hop culture. He appreciated Bengali literature and music primarily through his mother, and yet he showed an aversion to Bengalis in a rather complex way. He identified Bangladesh as “my country” but said that his relations with Bangladesh had changed once he associated himself with the hip-hop culture. The inequality between poor and what he called “elites” of Bangladesh disturbed him. Similarly, he showed aversion toward affluent Bangladeshi immigrants, including his parents. He appreciated the economic solvency of his parents because it provided him with material support and a good education. Nevertheless, he critiqued his parents for being the “model minority.” He was a rebel in his mind but

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still needed the support of his parents. Unlike other young people I interviewed, he reflected explicitly on the fluidity and the superficiality of identity: I am completely amorphous, I can be anything—I can take off my hat right now and speak Bengali, and I will be a Bengali boy. I can put back my hat on. … I will be Black. I can put on a suit and a tie and I can speak to you formally and professionally and I will be a White, you know. … I have taken math classes and there is a concept of limit … as a Bengali I can approach any identity, any race. I can assimilate with the quickness into any culture, any vive, that would be the core of my being.

Creating a Third Space Scholars often invoke the concept of hybridity (Bhabha, 1994) to illustrate the complex conditions people in diaspora encounter, simultaneously living in here (new home) and there (old home). In a diasporic context, hybridity often refers to an attempt to reconcile the cultures of old and new homes. It’s a constant negotiation between multiple spaces, which result in the creation of a third space. Desi culture is essentially a third space that the young Bangladeshi-Americans have crafted reconciling two positions—“complete American” or a “Bangladeshi.” “You cannot be fully a Bengali—there are parts of you that a typical Bengali girl in Bangladesh would not do,” Tumpa said. At the same time, she said that she was not like an “American” girl either. When she mentioned American teenagers, she referred to them as “they.” “They do certain things that we don’t do … they drink, go to clubs; we wouldn’t do because it’s not in our culture. Our parents taught us not to do that, you know,” Tumpa explained. Those young Bangladeshis needed to mix different parts of their life in order to create a coherent identity. They invoke the imagery of remix music to illustrate their lives. Nyrene, who grew up with a sense of desi identity in a small town, said she had been mixing “stuffs” in her life like the way she had mixed dance styles and created new styles: You know the South Indian dance, South Asian dances with American styles, Latin American styles everything together, I think that’s just the way my life will be where I try to mix together things, that new people that I meet like my friends Sara I try to share my culture with them and I take part of theirs, I think it’s just a give and take, and I do not think when you are defining an

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identity I do not think you have to be necessarily something or the other; you can be a combination of more than one things.

The life of Nazia, a desi enthusiast and activist and the proponent of an assertive Muslim identity, is a clear illustration of mixing. Nazia said she was an American, a Bengali, a desi, and a Muslim, and she needed to mix all of her identities to live a meaningful life in the United States. Nazia said that her assertive Muslim identity did not conflict with her other identities. Being a desi and being a Muslim were two layers of her identity, which enabled her to relate to people of South Asian origins who were not Muslims, and to people of the Middle East and other Muslims who were not desi. Also, she claimed that she was a Bengali but in a different way. Most of all, she said that she was an American. For being an American and for living in the United States she had to negotiate her other identities. Living in the United States and yet longing to retain some of her parent’s culture, made her identity complex; it was essentially a mix: We mix two. … I do not want to be totally American, or totally Bangladeshi. Because I am not Bengali of Bangladesh, I am a Bengali in America; that’s not just the addition … it is kind of giving the tradition a spin … it’s kind of taking the benefits of the both worlds. Let’s say, we have spaghetti but we eat spaghetti at home with spices … it’s just trying to bridge that two worlds and make it one because it’s so hard sometimes to separate it, and we do not want to separate it … it can be done through foods and dress. Like you see fatowa (women’s shirt—popular in India and Bangladesh) but I am wearing it with jeans.

Bangladeshi Television and Cultural Negotiations Bangladeshi television channels, aired from Bangladesh and from within the United States, made an inroad in Bangladeshi-American households. This visual medium gave yet another tool to Bangladeshi parents who are eager to instill Bengali culture in their children by decorating their homes in Bengali way, eating ethnic foods, and encouraging their children to speak Bengali at home. First-generation Bangladeshis were eager to welcome their native television channels in their home for two reasons: to meet their own need to reconnect with Bangladesh and sustain their diasporic imagination and also to help their children learn Bengali language. My research suggests that the second-generation youths in Bangladeshi

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households are not enthusiastic about Bangladeshi television, but they eventually watch some programs with their parents either intentionally or because of their patents’ insistence. Literature suggests that most second-­ generation youths can speak their parent’s language but only a few can read and write (Kasinitz et al., 2004, p. 6). Depending on the geographic locations and parental interests, the language proficiency of second-­ generation Bangladeshis varies; however, their parents want to teach them Bengali because they think their children would become American through ethnic routes. For Mahfuzur Rahman, a television executive during the time of interview, Bangladeshi television was a great tool to teach his daughter Bengali language and culture. He said, Due to television, second-generation Bangladeshis can have a chance to live in an atmosphere where Bengali words are spoken every day. My younger daughter, who came here at the age of three, watches Bengali drama on TV.  She knows the Bengali alphabets, cultural icons, and listens to Bangladeshi music. What I could not attain spending hundreds of dollars a month, I am getting it now through television. They all watch TV—listen to Bengali words either intentionally or unintentionally. They are becoming interested in Bangladesh and Bengali culture.

The enthusiasm expressed by some Bangladeshi parents over the availability of television programming from their old country was quickly dampened by the thought that their children might develop a negative impression of Bangladesh, or reinforce preexisting negative attitudes toward Bangladesh. With multiple Bangladeshi and Indian channels in the household, Naseema considered her Bangladeshi channels as “just another channel” but watched them regularly. Her sons might have watched some Bangladeshi television shows but she did not broach this topic until I reported that her niece and her niece’s friends had strong negative ideas about Bangladesh. Naseema attributed second-generation Bangladeshi young people’s negative views of Bangladesh to Bangladeshi television: When they turn on Bangladeshi channels they see RAB (stands for Rapid Action Battalion, a special security force in Bangladesh, which was widely blamed for many extra judicial killings) killing people, hartal [strikes], burning. They get all the negative information about Bangladesh from Bangladeshi media. American channels also give negative news about Bangladesh. They [children] were not grown in the environment of

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Bangladesh. We can see the negatives and positives. Children do not have the perspectives. I wanted before that my children watch Bangladesh television, especially TV drama and news. Now I do not want that, fearing the reverse effects.

Like Naseema, Shahnaz, a 35-year-old housewife who raised a 16-year-­ old daughter in the United States, initially welcomed Bangladeshi television in her home. However, she experienced a different kind of dilemma when her teenage daughter began watching some shows on Bangladeshi television channels, asking her mother questions, often bringing up complex cross-cultural issues. Seeing Bangladeshi young women in skirts, her daughter brought up the issue of “proper” Bangladeshi dressing, putting Shahnaz in a difficult situation. Shahnaz said that she had a somewhat frozen image of the lifestyle in Dhaka, which was disrupted by images that she watched on television. “Dhaka is much more advanced now,” said Shahnaz referring to revealing dresses that she and her daughter viewed on television shows. She always asked her daughter to dress modestly, citing Bengali heritage. “But when she watches drama then she says ‘Bangladeshis wear even worse, why do you ask me not to wear those?’” Although most Bangladeshi parents approve of common clothing such as jeans and short-sleeved tops, they do not approve weaing of revealing clothes.  Bangladeshi television programs sometimes prove to be subversive to Bangladeshi immigrant parents by providing a counternarrative of Bangladeshi culture to their children, a phenomenon Gillespie also reported in her study of Punjabi families in London (Gillespie, 1995).

Engaging with Islam as Depicted in Media and Popular Culture Islam has emerged as an explanatory trope post-9/11 and immigration and diaspora literature are replete with references of the role of Islam in immigrants’ life. More than 80 percent of Bangladeshis and almost an equal percentage of Bangladeshi-Americans are Muslims, and undoubtedly Islam shapes the identity of second-generation Bangladeshis. Although most of my participants did not mention Islam as a strong reference point of their identity, almost all reported being affected by the post-9/11 exclusionary rhetoric of Islam that circulated in the mainstream media and emanated from some institutions of Islam. Nyrene, a non-­ practicing Muslim, was torn by what she called “America-versus-Islam

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kind of thing.” Citing her experience with a mosque that she attended as a child, she said that the Imam (prayer leader) made it seemed like that Islam could not be a part of America. By the same token, she said that U.S. media reported on terrorism in a way that it seemed Muslims are part of those acts and thus excluded from America. Post-9/11 media narratives caused backlash against Muslims of all backgrounds (Bakalian & Bozorgmehr, 2009), but it may also have spurred an assertive Muslim identity in some second-generation Bangladeshis. Assertive Muslim Identity Nazia, a college student whom I cited extensively  (Rahman, 2011), asserted her Muslim identity. She  was involved in cultural affairs in her campus and observed that Americans around her were learning about her faith through television and other popular media. Responding to public associations between Islam and terrorism, backwardness and tribalism, Nazia states: “it’s difficult because many times people criticize a lot and you have to defend your religion a lot. As Muslims you have to be on your toes.” She expressed a perceived obligation to know more about her religion and defend it against public scrutiny: “It’s a lot of convincing that this is a good religion, it’s a pure religion, it’s a religion that teaches us to respect the elders, take care of the elderly, give charity, it’s really a peaceful religion; it does not teach terrorism.” That drive for knowledge about Islam made her “own” her religion and claim a more assertive Muslim identity. She did not wear the traditional Islamic headscarf, hijab, when we spoke but she said that as she was becoming more knowledgeable about Islam, she was feeling the urge to put on the headscarf. Her desire to uphold her religious identity was also informed by what she experienced in a multicultural campus where other students’ Jewish identity was asserted and embraced. The assertiveness certainly shapes her identity; she sees herself as distinct and constructs an identity against the popular culture. “Just because I was brought up here does not mean that I will have to do the things that they have to do,” she said referring to college parties and drinking and other popular cultural elements surrounding her life. Kibria explains that first-generation Bangladeshi parents welcome the “revivalist Islam” to their children’s lives “viewing it as a useful tool by which to avert the social and cultural assimilation of their children into the mainstream society” (Kibria, 2008, p. 256).

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First-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in the United States prefer that their children practice “Bangladeshi” Islam in which they are comfortable, but they know that their children are detached from Bangladesh and the Islamic practices and rituals prevalent there. The children are more likely to follow a transnational Islam in the diaspora. First-generation Bangladeshi Muslims in the United States, to their dismay, find that people’s understanding of Islam in the United States is based on a primarily Arab-centric perspective. Media representation of Islam is skewed to certain regressive Arab practices such as Saudi Arabia’s ban on women driving or the Taliban’s fight against girls’ education. Media’s tendency to depict Islam through the imagery of long garb, headscarves, and other traditional attires leaves many Bangladeshis in a situation where mainstream Americans doubt whether they are “true” Muslims (Rahman, 2011, pp.  152–57). There is evidence that second-generation young Bangladeshis gravitate toward some version of transnational Islam and strive to find a “pure” Islam, premised in individual choice, self-reflection, reflective modernity, and equality (Kibria, 2008, p.  254). The tradition, social relations, and hierarchy that lace Bangladeshi Islam come under scrutiny as young people search for an unadulterated Islam. Similarly, other orthodoxies that emanate from different brands of political Islam and regressive Islam practiced in certain parts of the world with tribal zeal came under scrutiny. What, then can emerge would be something Jennifer Friedlin called “American Islam” (Friedlin, 2004). Friedlin argued, disillusioned with the narrow interpretation of Islam by their local communities, some second-­ generation Muslims showed an eagerness to reform Islam by forming groups and utilizing social media. Quoting a number of reform-minded Muslims, Friedlin said that those young people desired to create a space from where they can create an alternative narrative, which would be different from the narratives of most of the mosques and the mainstream Muslim organizations. Second-generation Bangladeshi-Americans might very well be a part of that movement.

Conclusion Immigration is a disruptive and destabilizing process (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco, 2001, pp. 66–86); immigrants face a complicated process of mixing and re-making identities, holding on to some old traditions and practices while acquiring new skills and capabilities to survive and put their lives back in some sort of order. Like other immigrants, the

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first-generation Bangladeshi immigrants spend their whole life coming to terms with “here and now” and “there and then” (Suárez-Orozco & Suárez-Orozco, 2001, pp.  66–86). Second-generation Bangladeshi-­ Americans, by contrast, despite having significantly fewer reference points for their parents’ old home and culture, have to negotiate a much more intense process of mixing and re-making, which is evident in their articulation of desi identity. Desis constantly switch codes in order to navigate their home and the outside world. In so doing, they not only reshape their life and identity but also change their home and the society of which they are presently a part.

References Aksoy, A. (2006). Transnational virtues and cool loyalties: Responses of Turkish-­ speaking migrants in London to September 11. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 32(6), 923–946. Aksoy, A., & Robins, K. (2003). Banal transnationalism: The difference that television makes. In H.  K. Karim (Ed.), The media of diaspora (pp.  89–104). London/New York: Routledge. Bakalian, A., & Bozorgmehr, M. (2009). Backlash 9/11: Middle Eastern and Muslim American respond. Berkley/Los Angeles: University of California Press. Bhabha, H. (1994). The location of culture. New York: Routledge. Charusheela, S. (2007). The diaspora at home. Cultural Dynamics, 19(2/3), 279–299. Dudrah, R. (2002). Zee TV-Europe and the construction of a pan-European South Asian identity. Contemporary South Asia, 11 (2)163–181. Dudrah, R. (2012). Bollywood travels: Culture, diaspora and border crossing in popular Hindi cinema. New York: Routledge. Edwards, J.  A., & Herder, R. (2012). Melding a new immigration narrative? President George W.  Bush and the immigration debate. Howard Journal of Communication, 23 (1), 40–65. Fontana, A., & Frey, J. H. (2000). The interview: From structured questions to negotiated text. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds.), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 645–672). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Friedlin, J. (2004, November 17). The Americanization of Islam? Jerusalem Report, posted on altmuslim. Retrieved February 4, 2010, from http://www. altmuslim.com/a/a/m/2542/ Gillespie, M. (1995). Television, ethnicity and cultural change. London: Routledge. Hall, S. (1990). Cultural identity and diaspora. In J. Rutherford (Ed.), Identity: Community, culture, difference (pp. 222–237). London: Lawrence & Wishart. Minhaj, H. (2020). We cannot stay silent about George Floyd. Patriot Act Digital Exclusive, Netflix.

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Kasinitz, P., Mollenkopf, J. H., & Waters, M. C. (2004). Worlds of the second generation. In P. Kasinitz, J.H. Mollenkopf, & M.C. Waters (Eds.), Becoming New Yorkers: Ethnographies of the new second generation. New York: Russell Sage. Kibria, N. (2008). The ‘new Islam’ and the Bangladeshi youths in Britain and the US. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 31(2), 243–266. Lindlof, T., & Taylor, B. C. (2002). Qualitative communication research methods (2nd ed.). Thousands Oaks/London: Sage. Maira, S. (2002). Desis in the house: Indian American youth culture in New York City. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Marable, M. (2001). Terrorism and the struggle for peace. The Free Press. Retrieved August 8, 2007, from http://freepress.org/columns/display/4/2001/296 Marwah, S. (2017). Kehte Hain Humko Pyar Se Indiawaale: Shaping a contemporary diasporic Indianness in and through the Bollywood Song. South Asian Popular Culture, 15 (2), 189–202. Naber, N. (2006). The rules of forced engagement: Race, gender, and the culture of fear among Arab immigrants in San Francisco Post-9/11. Cultural Dynamics, 18(3), 235–267. Rahman, S. (2007). Transnational media reception, Islamophobia, and the identity constructions of a non-Arab Muslim diasporic community: The experiences of Bangladeshis in the United States since 9/11. [Doctoral dissertation, Southern Illinois University, Carbondale]. ProQuest, available at https:// www.proquest.com/openview/738a3ab848671cae9cec3bd1a33c9f3d/ 1?pq-origsite=gscholar&cbl=18750&diss=y Rahman, S. (2010). Imagining life under the long shadow of 9/11: Backlash, media discourse, identity and citizenship of the Bangladeshi diaspora in the United States. Cultural Dynamics, 22(1), 49–72. Rahman, S. (2011). The Bangladeshi diaspora in the United States after 9/11: From obscurity to high visibility. El Paso, TX: LFB Scholarly Publishing LLC. Rana, J., & Rosas, G. (2006). Managing crisis: Post-9/11 policing and empire. Cultural Dynamics, 18(3), 219–234. Shi, Y. (2005). Identity construction of the Chinese diaspora, ethnic media use, community formation, and the possibility of social formation. Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, 19 (1), 55–72. Sinclair, J., & Cunningham, S. (2001). Diasporas and the media. In J. Sinclair and S.  Cunningham (Eds.),  Floating lives: The media and Asian diaspora (pp. 1-33). New York: Rowman & Littlefield. Strubel, J., & Josiam, B.  M. (2016). Renegotiating gender through dress in Bollywood: The new Indian woman. Fashion, Style and Popular Culture, 3(3), 313–325. Suárez-Orozco, C., & Suárez-Orozco, M. M. (2001). Children of immigration. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

CHAPTER 14

Strega Nona: The Spell on Identities Violetta Ravagnoli

Introduction On a very cold morning in Boston, my children and I stood in line for four hours to meet author and illustrator, Tomie dePaola. Respectively seven and nine years old, the bambinas were eager to meet the creator of their beloved heroine, Strega Nona, and of many other books that have accompanied them in countless evenings on their way to the embrace of Morpheus.1 In the long line outside the tiny Italian book shop in the North End, the Italian enclave of Boston, we found ourselves getting closer and closer to the people around us. Pressed against each other, for a matter of space and climate, everyone started sharing stories about when and how they read dePaola’s books, and what each book meant to them. In the frigid air of that Sunday morning, winning the all-American concept of personal space, everyone heatedly discussed which books to purchase at the store to  In Greek and Roman mythology, Morpheus is the son of the god of sleep, who was believed to populate the dreams of people with human figures. 1

V. Ravagnoli (*) Emmanuel College, Boston, MA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_14

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have them autographed. While the unfavorable weather was tempered by the generous hot chocolate served by a kind woman from the bookstore dressed as Strega Nona, that line of people, coming from all walks of life, felt a sense of unity, strengthened by the sharing of personal stories. The extenuating wait had become bearable because of a feeling of belonging to a collective tradition. However, what does a collective tradition exactly entail? Does a feeling of belonging have the power to shape a person’s identity? Does it have long-term consequences? Can belonging be scientifically analyzed with statements and set practices that will repeat themselves in the same manner over time and space? This chapter engages these questions in relation to the development of the feelings of belonging within an ethnic group. It discusses the complex identities of second- and third-generation scions of immigrant families (or first-generation Americans). It uses Strega Nona as the vehicle to explore the ebbs and flows of the identity formation of two generations in comparison. That is, it examines the ramifications of stories of mobility and migrations in different eras and discusses similarities and differences in processes of identity building in the U.S.

The Poetics of Identity as a Methodology According to Vico, history can be examined as divided into three different ages: the age of Gods or the poetic stage; the age of Heroes or the mythical stage; and finally, the age of Man or the philosophical stage. In Italian Signs, American Streets, Gardaphé chose Italian-American authors from different eras as expressions of each of these three stages2 and Lisa Insana places Strega Nona in the mythical stage of Italian-American’s storytelling 2  In the poetic stage, very much like the Homeric stage of ancient western literature, the storytelling is influenced by oral traditions; in Italian-American writing, Gadarphé identifies with this first stage, the stage of the God, all the early attempts to negotiate an American identity. That is, immigrant writers strongly maintained their Italianness as an ideal. In the mythical stage, protagonists of the stories (mostly of immigrant origins) are invested of heroic qualities; in this stage, immigrants will find themselves in a transient position, where hybrid identities are usually created. In the third stage, the age of Man, immigrants become defined mostly by their Americanness, which becomes natural and almost complete. This classification encounters the same criticisms that Gans pronounced against straight-line theory of ethnicity. It does not leave space for situationally based belongings and sees ItalianAmerican literature as a monotonous struggle toward acceptance into the category of American literature.

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traditions. Strega Nona is Italian-American; and according to Insana, she becomes herself the expression of an Italian-American identity, as well as a representation of the author’s own critical process toward his personal identity.3 While Strega Nona is only an imaginary character of children’s literature, her stories and the historical context her creator lived in speak volumes of the intricacies of identity, never static, always conditioned by situationally driven needs, constrained desires, national restrictions, local barriers, and transnational movements. Applying a Vichian framework, I propose to understand the process of identity building not within a temporal continuum that ultimately leads to Americanization, but rather as an a-temporal sequence of generation, de-­ generation, and re-generation of identity signifiers. It is commonplace for human beings to change perceptions and views to reflect the time period they live in. However, they maintain mental structures that can remain unaltered over time. Hence, it seems that history repeats itself when, in reality, it is the limited human mind that creates, recreates, and perpetrates barriers and misinterpretations. For instance, self-identifications as well as “othering” have always been the result of encounters. Despite the fact that individual choices are made on situation-based criteria, people’s attitudes in “othering”4 and ghettoizing the “new immigrants” remain similar even over a 100-year gap. Therefore, isolating “othering” as the historical constant, it is important to analyze actual and time-specific changes. These are influenced by three major spheres: the historical context; the amendments to institutional, political, social, and economic organizations; and finally, the personal stories and individual journeys toward self-definition. In this framework, generalizations and universal sociological paradigms alone cannot explain the complexity and the innermost implications of displacement and emplacement. There is a need for personal stories and analysis of those in light of the time period. Below I first present the historical context in which Strega Nona took shape; second, I examine the 3  Insana, Lisa “Strega Nona’s Ethnic Alchemy: Magic Pasta, Stregheria and that Amazing Disappearing “N”” MELUS Vol. 31, N. 2, Varieties of Ethnic Experience (2006), pp. 207–243. 4  “Othering” is “a process of stigmatization that defines another in a negative manner.” Macquarrie, Colleen, and MacQuarrie. “Othering.” In Encyclopedia of Case Study Research, edited by Albert J. Mills, Gabrielle Durepos, and Eleden Wiebe. Sage Publications, 2009. Accessed on July 10, 2019. https://ezproxyemc.flo.org/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/content/entry/sagecsr/othering/0?institutionId=1968

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social changes that sprang out of that time; finally, I consider a few personal stories in relation to Strega Nona and the environment she was generated from.

The Making of Strega Nona Historical Context Tomie dePaola was born in 1934 and was part of a generation of descendants of immigrants that struggled with questions of adaptation. He grew up in a nation implementing quota systems aimed at controlling immigration from southern Europe, among other places.5 Just ten years before Tomie was born, his government had passed the Johnson-Reed Act, which placed a quota of 2% on visas available to different immigrant groups. The quotas were based on the presence in the U.S. of each ethnic group as of the year 1890. By picking this date, the law de facto targeted immigrants from Asia, Southern and Eastern Europe because in the late nineteenth century there were fewer migrants from those regions than in the 1920s. In addition, the law reinforced the concept of “undesirable” immigrants who needed to be stopped at entry or sent away. Even later, in the 1950s, the U.S. government advanced provisions to determine the worthiness of the origin of each immigrant group,6 resulting in the perpetration of ethnic discrimination and ghettoization of ethnic communities already living on U.S. soil. For instance, the 1952 Immigration and Nationality Act abolished racial restrictions against Asians; however, it retained the quota system approved in previous 5  The 1924 Immigration Law was the ultimate re-elaboration of several restrictive immigration laws passed earlier (the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, the 1917 Immigration Act passing the Literary Test to be taken by every immigrant of age 16 and above, the Asiatic Barred Zone Act excluding from entry everyone from the lose geographic definition of Asiatic zone, and finally the 1921 Emergency Quota Act), which deliberately placed obstacles to enter the U.S. to immigrants from Asia, Southern and Eastern Europe. 6  The 1952 Immigration and Nationality Act or the McCarran-Walter Act modified the 1924 Immigration Act to allow the issuance of 154,277 visas and the national origins quotas were changed to one-sixth of 1% of each nationality’s population in the U.S. in 1920. The law relieved Asian migrants who were able to demonstrate to be skilled migrants, but it added provisions against immigrants whose countries’ political views could be detrimental to the American way of life. This happened at the beginning of the Cold War and people from countries where socialist ideas were widespread were considered risky (again, Italy, China, and Eastern European countries).

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legislations. The Act institutionalized the concept of “desirable” immigration based on a clear division between skilled and unskilled laborers, assimilable or unassimilable mindsets. Hence, the generations growing up during these times were constrained in their expression of ethnic identities by practical daily struggles prompted by state rules and the legal system. Political views of someone’s country of origin were attributed to an entire immigrant group, rendering all associated with that nation dangerous for the American values of individual freedom and democracy. This climate was conducive of a collective push to the erasure of all ethnically defining features. Therefore, during this period of auspicated quick assimilation and institutionalized Americanization,7 Italian immigrants, who were not familiar with American social mores, were criticized for their “inaptness.”8 Those originally from southern Italy were described not only as “undesirable,” but, in a racially divided social structure, considered of the “lowest order.”9 Therefore, Italians were accused of being unassimilable and, as a group, deemed dangerous to the spirit of America. Consequently, second- and third-generations living during the first half of the twentieth century found themselves in the awkward position of “sacrificing […] their parents’ cultural heritage”10 so they could be assimilated into the American mainstream, which had become a major goal of Italian-American youngsters of the time.11

7  Americanization: the 1910s U.S. nationwide effort to homogenize the countless immigrants arriving in the U.S. through educational movement. The movement was principled in acculturating immigrants to the standardized social values of twentieth-century America; food, language, education, dress, and etiquette were all subject to Americanizing (Roberts, Peter The Problem of Americanization (Norwood: Norwood Press), 1920). 8  Cabaniss, Emily R. and Abigail E.  Cameron, “‘Unassimilable and undesirable’: News elites’ discursive construction of the American immigrant during the Ellis Island years” Discourse and Society Vol. 28 No. 6 (2017), pp. 614–634. 9  Guglielmo Jennifer and Salvatore Salerno, Are Italians White? How Race Is Made in America, (New York: Taylor and Francis, 2003), p. 34. 10   Portes, Alejandro, and Min Zhou, “The New Second Generation: Segmented Assimilation and Its Variants,” The Annals of the American Academy of Political Social Science, Vol. 530, Interminority Affairs if the U.S.: Pluralism at the Crossroads (Nov. 1993), p. 96. 11  I use Porter and Zhou established theoretical concept of segmented assimilation to compare the two generations of Italian-Americans under analysis in this chapter. It is beyond the scope of this article to try to answer questions posed by Portes and Zhou in the article cited about segmented assimilation in the 1990s and immigrant minorities in the U.S. at that time.

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The Institution and Organization of Social Change Starting with the late 1960s, the effects of the civil rights movement demanding social justice and equality invigorated more open expressions of ethnic belonging among communities of immigrants. Students in many colleges and universities around the U.S. were demonstrating to ask that their ethnic backgrounds would be represented in departments of humanities and social sciences as integrant part of American history. Inspired by civil and political debates about multi-culturalism and a renewed awareness of each other’s ancestry, second- and third-generations born in the U.S., who had lived through discrimination and exclusions, became hybridized, pulled between different feelings of belonging. Hybridization, the process of becoming, occurs during times of rising social transitions (i.e., the time of the civil rights movement). The main reason for contextualizing identities under the umbrella of hybridization is that it offers a way to understand identity not as a set of defined variables that could shape essentialized and fix selves, but rather as a moving target, which builds on Stuart Hall’s definition of identity as something that “always remains incomplete, is always ‘in process,’ always ‘being formed.’”12 Therefore, hybridity becomes a “repertoires of meaning”13 for identities perennially in the making. When in 1965 Lindon Johnson signed the historical Immigration and Nationality Act, everything changed, at least as far as the rules of the game. This law abolished the National Origin Formula, which had previously discriminated against many incoming immigrants. For the first time in almost a century, social, ethnic, and racial differences were leveled off from the criteria of entry. At least in theory, from 1965 on, every immigrant had a shot at the American society. Consequently, first- and second-generation Americans found themselves re-imagining their position in their country. Sociologists Zhou and Portes14 described the second- and third-­ generations of these years as reaching a segmented assimilation, where 12  Hall, Stuart, “The Question of Cultural Identity,” in Stuart Hall et al. eds., Modernity: An Introduction to Modern Societies, (London: Blackwell, 1996), p. 608. 13  Hall, Stuart, “Conclusion: the multi-cultural question,” in Hesse, B. ed., Un/Settled Multiculturalisms: Diasporas, Entanglements, Transruptions (New York: St. Martin’s Press/ Zed Books), pp. 225–226. 14  Portes, Alejandro and Min Zhou, “The New Second Generation: Segmented Assimilation and Its Variants,” The Annals of the American Academy of Political Social Science, Vol. 530, Interminority Affairs if the U.S.: Pluralism at the Crossroads (Nov. 1993), pp. 74–96.

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pressures to Americanize in the social sphere were counterbalanced by social prescriptions that they learned in the private sphere, where they lived by images conjectured by stories and traditions handed down by kin figures like mothers or grandmothers. In the public sphere, they breathed through popular sentiments of American exceptionalism, sprouting out of the post-WWII polarized world, and merging into the late 1960s and 1970s phenomenon known in both academic and popular writing as the “ethnic revival.” In 1979, sociologist Herbert Gans described “ethnic revival” in America as that time when offspring of immigrant groups did not need to surrender their ethnicity in order to move upward in the social scale. While ethnicity needed not to be concealed, at the same time, amid many ethnic communities, second- and third-generation Americans grew tired of the renewed and seemingly unceasing necessity to demonstrate the ethnic elements of their beings. Contradiction and controversy sprang from the so-called ethnic revival movement. The many criticisms “ethnic revival” received can be summarized by the fact that under this concept, elaborate definitions of what acculturation and assimilation could mean, risked being simplistically identified with a one-dimensional process toward Americanization.15 Hence, Gans proposed the alternative notion of “symbolic ethnicity” to replace “ethnic revival.” He concluded that “symbolic ethnicity” could encapsulate a multilayered and multidimensional ethnicity that better described the historical background of post-1965 America.16 Novels, fictions, theater pieces, all reflect very clearly the trends and the battles over belonging and identity, more or less subtle, that different ethnic groups withstood, both in the private and in the public spheres. The role of literature can be oversimplified as the mirror of society, but I’d like to argue that each author, influenced by personal history, and current reality, reflects some aspects of a world in motion. Following the Vichian approach of corsi and ricorsi of history, it is crucial to analyze literature to interpret society as an unbound flow of matter capable of endlessly 15  It is not the aim of this chapter to produce an in-depth analysis of the sociological “straight line theory” of acculturation and assimilation. This reference will serve the simple purpose of underlining the need for an analysis of ethnicity more complex than a process toward American homogeneity. 16  Gans, Herbert J., “Symbolic Ethnicity: the Future of Ethnic Groups and Cultures in America” Ethnic and Racial Studies, Vol. 2, N. 1 (1979), pp. 1–20.

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assembling and dismantling. Writers are builders of specular worlds that are left for us to savor and understand. In an exploration of Italian-American novels and fictions of the twentieth century, up to the 1970s, Basile finds in a five-stage process, an efficacious subdivision of Italian-American depictions of identity. The first stage comprised novels that were mostly autobiographical and that subjectively described the early problems Italians faced in America. The second stage was of “withdrawal into isolation,” where the ethnic enclaves understood that there was a concrete need for assimilation. The third phase was the revulsion against Italian-American themes, immediately followed by the counter-revulsion, marked by a reclaiming of the old sources of Italianness. Finally, the fifth stage is the hybridization of literature and identity—where Italian traditions become harmonized with American culture.17 Strega Nona was created during this fifth stage. Tomie dePaola had internalized his Americanness, had found his place in society and, since comfortable, had created a character with Italian origins, also harmonized with American culture. In that historical moment, ethnicity, undoubtedly, became a strong signifier18 for ideas of belonging. Belonging to an ethnic group finally had a purpose; it meant finding meanings for individual identities that could secure specific and recognizable places for themselves in society. Ethnicity was a symbol, a prêt-à-porter clothing item to wear, if and when needed. It is crucial to examine this context to comprehend the environment in which Strega Nona was created. This was the environment dePaola grew up in and the conditions within which his identity took shape. This was the time when renewed hyphenated identities were born. Hyphenated identities will become one expression of the many levels of hybridization 17  Basile Green, Rose. The Italian American Novel. A Document of the Interaction of Two Cultures (Associated University Press: Cranbury NJ), 1974. 18  Just as a quick reference, I here use signifier as in linguistics studies influenced by Ferdinand de Saussure where the signifier is part of a sign, made of a signifier and a signified. “In linguistics, a signifier is a word or related symbol that refers to a class of objects; the signified is the object referred to. […] The distinctive assumption of Saussurian linguistics is that the signifier is arbitrary, from which it follows that language is a social construction, not something that can have a natural or objective reference point.” Stager Jacques, Roy, and Stager Jacques. “Signifier and Signified.” In Encyclopedia of Case Study Research, edited by Albert J.  Mills, Gabrielle Durepos, and Eleden Wiebe. Sage Publications, 2009. https:// ezproxyemc.flo.org/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/content/entry/ sagecsr/signifier_and_signified/0?institutionId=1968

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that second- and third-generations of immigrant families will openly or privately embrace as features of their performative identities. This is when Strega Nona was created. “Strega Nona. Her Story”19 Strega Nona comes out of the brilliant mind of author and illustrator, Tomie dePaola. The author was born in 1934 in Connecticut, from a family of Italian and Irish immigrants. His mother’s side of the family was of Irish origins and his father’s family was from Italy. As it happened in many areas in the northeast of the U.S., Irish and Italian immigrants, while vocally perpetuating their cultural differences, often ended up intermarrying and creating families connected by the commonalities of Catholic beliefs and parochial schools. Some of Tomie dePaola’s most famous books tell sentimental stories about grandmothers, like the brusque and brooding Italian grandmother—Grandma Fall River; or of his Irish grandmother and great-grandmother (as in his moving book Nana Upstairs, Nana Downstairs). In his books he describes the Italian grandmother, whom he calls Nana Fall Rivers, as stricter and more authoritarian than the Irish one. She always served spaghetti and meatball (not Tomie’s favorite dish) and yelled, “Mangia, Mangia!” Picky eaters were not allowed. Maybe Strega Nona is his idealized personification of the severe grandma that is tough outside and yet possesses the magical ingredient (love, as in Strega Nona’s stories) that makes her become really warm and affectionate. In 1976 dePaola was awarded the Randolph Caldecott Medal Award for his book Strega Nona. Strega Nona is the illustrated and colorful representation of the typical southern European immigrant woman of the late nineteenth century, of which many pictures are available today.20 In dePaola’s illustrations, Strega Nona is a witch-resembling old lady from Calabria, a southern province of Italy. In all the books about her, the author depicted Italian small-town life, superstitious beliefs, and magical power of grandparents. In fact, no matter the ethnicity or the nationality of the subjects, grandmothers are recurrent symbols of common traditions and bearers of 19  This subtitle is written in  quotation marks because while here I  intend to  discuss the peculiarity of the individual stories of Strega Nona and her creator, the title is also a direct citation of  one of  the  books Tomie dePaola wrote about Strega Nona—Strega Nona. Her Story. 20  For specific images check the digital collections of the New York Public Library https:// digitalcollections.nypl.org/items/510d47da-dc88-a3d9-e040-e00a18064a99

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family secrets. Strega Nona as well is a grandmotherly figure, with magical powers and knowledge of the native land of dePaola’s ancestors. Strega Nona—Grandma Witch, lives in a small house on the top of the hill. The decorations of her house and the settings of the town, with small red shingled-houses amassed at the foot of a mountain, the convent, the town hall, the fountain in the main piazza, and the blue sea rumbling on the side, certainly evoke images of Italian small towns. The author is definitively successful in conveying aspects of Italianness21 in the stories of Strega Nona, who is especially appreciated by Italian-American parents. Features of Strega Nona’s village, such as the convent and the mayor’s office, are still reassuringly present in contemporary Calabrian towns. On the contrary, some of the porticos dePaola draws in Strega Nona’s stories are not typical of the landscape of Calabria. This minor misrepresentation of Calabria forces us to question the author’s background. Observations on artistic realism and questions about the author’s educational background would probably be of no interest to Italian-American parents; however, apparently futile details of picture books can help us understand the intricacies of identity and ethnicity amid transnational movements of ideas and commodities. Tomie dePaola had grown up and studied in America during the 1940s and 1950s. He was a third-generation descendant of immigrants from Ireland and Italy. Traces of Italianness that surfaced in stories of Strega Nona were most probably a combined result of family memories and college studies. The author, in fact, studied Italian Art in college. He himself declared to be an admirer of Italian painters like Giotto and Cimabue.22 Giotto was a Master of Visual Arts during the period known as Italian Humanism, which unfolded between the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries. During this time, different disciplines began placing greater attention on human agency and writers, philosophers, and scientists revisited their understanding of individuals in society. In the arts, depictions of daily activities and realistic representations of regular folks’ life appeared even in the portrayal of religious themes. Giotto started applying new perceptions of space to show the newly gained relevance of human agency. For this 21  I will use italics for the word Italianness (Italianità) throughout the chapter to underline an unresolved definition of the concept, which here I intend as an intangible filler of identity vacuums (see later in the chapter). 22  Elleman, Barbara, Tomie dePaola: His Art and His Stories (Putnam Publishing: New York), 1999.

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reason, Giotto will be considered the precursor of Renaissance art by the famous Italian Renaissance artist, Giorgio Vasari. Strega Nona’s village, especially the porticos,23 is certainly inspired by Giotto’s paintings. In addition, porticos can be found in the scenography of the form of theater known as Commedia dell’Arte,24 of which dePaola declared to be particularly fond. Therefore, illustrator dePaola, who had gone to college in the U.S., utilized his American education to imagine Italian landscapes and create the enchanting and frugal Italian old women with a golden heart that we all love. Because of Strega Nona’s descriptions of Calabria and the continuous visual reminders of the beauty of the ancestral home, her character has been a success, especially among people of Italian ancestry. They are drawn to the graceful drawings of Strega Nona’s books, her village, the piazzas, the convents, her traditions, her food; every detail becomes a lively reminiscence of the mythological land of origin of their families. While dePaola’s American education contributed enormously to the realization of Strega Nona, his audience is allowed to savor the idea that all dePaola knows about Italy comes from the teachings of his immigrant family, especially his grandmother. An immediate question arises: “Is Strega Nona really Italian, let alone truly Calabrese?” While answering this question could be important for a researcher of ethnicity and identity, it is certainly not the main reason for reading dePaola’s creations. In fact, while contradictory, I still chose to believe in Strega Nona’s magic.

Strega Nona’s Sorcery in the Twenty-First Century When I approached Strega Nona, I was intrigued by her non-ostentatious display of Italian folklore. I was pleased to be able to tell my children, in English, stories that would make them grasp features of the world I came from. I yearned for images and symbols of the “old country” that could nurture their curiosity and their love for the land and the people I 23  Among some of Giotto’s frescos we see representations of religious scenes in the context of villages and town’s life with houses with porticos and stairs as in the Ascension of St. John the Evangelist, the Legend of St. Francis, the Expulsion of the merchants from the Temple, or the Massacre of the Innocents. 24  Commedia dell’Arte is a typical form of theatrical art that was created in Italy around the 1500s. The novelty of this form of art was the presence of women on stage, the short writing texts with an almost improvised performance. It was so representative of Italian culture that is also simply known as Commedia Italiana.

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identified with. I read the old grandma’s adventures to my progeny, hoping to offer them a sniff and a small flavor of Italianness. Was it “symbolic ethnicity” what I was trying to convey to my children by reading Strega Nona? Was I sewing prêt-à-porter garments of Italianness for them? When I discovered Strega Nona’s first book, I was attracted by the title, written with two Italian words, even if together they sounded quite bizarre. “Strega” I understood, but “Nona,”25 meaning the ninth of something, appeared a bit puzzling. Italian grammar does not usually allow for an adjective like “Nona”—the ninth—to stand after a noun. The adjective usually precedes the substantive it describes. Yet, I picked up the book and enjoyed it. Afterward, I read all dePaola’s books. We enjoyed the ritual of reading the adventures of this funny-looking old lady coming from mom and dad’s birthplace. However, that very Sunday morning in the North End, I was awakened, by my own flesh and blood, to a less romantic and more complex reality behind ethnic identity. Once we got inside the tiny bookshop, my seven-year-old daughter skimmed through the available publications and made two piles. Then, she firmly declared: “This pile has books that are too American for me.” Books like Pancake for Breakfast, Tomie dePaola’s Mother Goose, Oliver Button is a Sissy were all segregated in the unwanted pile. Even The Legend of the Old Befana was set aside, the book that recounts the story that most closely draws my girls to their grandmother. The book explains the cherished ritual they had enjoyed in Italy every morning of every January 6th they could remember in their lives. It narrates the story of the old Befana, the lady that comes to visit children the same night the three kings find baby Jesus and offer him gifts. The old lady, always impersonated by their grandma, arrives at night and brings sweets to children who had behaved well during the year and coal to those who had misbehaved. Old Befana is typically offered a cup of espresso and a clementine and she always leaves a letter to the children of the household. This is enthusiastically found close to the clementine’s peel and the empty coffee cup and read in the morning. The letter usually contains words of appreciation and love, but it always has one or two remarks on naughtiness and disobedience; also, the old socks Befana leaves are typically full of candy, but with the consistent presence of a little piece of coal, which is a grandmotherly admonishment to be good in the year to come. I imagine that a book explaining such a personal ceremony might 25  Nona was the actual given name of the character, but I did not know it the first time I checked the book out of the library.

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have been perceived by the little one as an affront to her individual memory; as if a book in English, teaching her about such an intimate celebration must have sounded as a threat to the integrity of her Italian grounding. Luckily, Strega Nona and her friends, Big Anthony, Bambolona, and Strega Amelia, had resisted and withstood her rigorous screening. I later had time to reflect on her comments; however, on the spot, I felt uncomfortable about her observation and nervously laughed. The sentimentalized intimacy shared a few instants before with the collectivity, rapidly transformed in uneasiness and isolation. In that celebratory moment of artistry and sharing, I felt like a wall was built and I was left with numerous questions about my own attitude and approach to belonging. Children have open and versatile minds and juvenile literature should be read with a similar approach. And yet, my child, who probably identified with her Italian background as much as Tomie had done when he was her age, made the blunt and matter-of-factly remark about some of dePaola’s works being not Italian enough for her—a seven-year-old second-­ generation Xer, daughter of diasporic parents. Scholars of juvenile literature have been dissecting and problematizing the role of children’s books for decades. Analyses written during the late 1970s and 1980s, under the influence of Marxist historiography, sustained that children’s books were the result of the creation of a bourgeois class, and emerged after the industrial revolution. Alphabetization and wider access to schooling, especially for children of the bourgeoisie, allowed for a larger quest for publications of children’s literature. In the second half of the nineteenth century, stories for children gained pedagogical capacity. Narrations with edifying plots flourished to fulfill the goal of teaching and spreading specific values and ideologies. Italian examples of juvenile literature aimed at emphasizing ideals of nationalism and patriotism come easily to my mind. For instance, De Amici’s book Heart is a classic illustration of Italian youth narrative portraying themes of class differences and inequality, stressing the significance of education and elevating the meaning of a unified nation as an alternative creed, sometimes even to religion. Books like Heart or Pinocchio, written in the late 1800s by authors that felt compelled to use children’s literature for educational purposes, taught nationalist ideals to the pliable minds of children; they were seen a patriotic necessity. Does Strega Nona have a pedagogical role? Can dePaola’s other books be analyzed as promoters of “symbolic ethnicity”? Do they help discussing ethnicity? Can his stories, published in a time of identity reshaping, be

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associated today with an urge to replenish basic identities of ethnic connotations, without impending on patriotic structures? They might for someone; however, after four decades of success, we can also safely assert that the audience of Strega Nona today goes beyond her constructed ethnic boundaries and it is multifaceted. Of course, Strega Nona’s devotees comprise Italian-American heritage enthusiasts, who are still especially bewitched by her and her wonderful pot that can cook an endless amount of pasta, the universally recognized staple of Italian cuisine; yet, it counts acolytes also in ecumenical managers of children sections of public libraries, where dePaola’s books are omnipresent, as well as socially engaged teachers of K-6 grades and pre-schools, some of whom I met in line that Sunday morning, and who capitalize on dePaola’s stories to introduce different cultures and delicately instill curiosity about “others.”

Freedom of Speeches As an immigrant mother, I agonize for the survival in my children’s memories of small symbolic remembrances of sunny Italy, food-laden table, and noisy apartments overflowing with people. As I do this, from a privileged perspective of somebody who can return “home” twice a year, I cannot refrain from thinking of the million other immigrants around the world and over time that are doing, and have done, the same; even if this attitude, voluntarily or unknowingly, might have contributed to classifications and perpetration of stereotypes. My seven-year-old daughter, schooled in the U.S., in the afternoon is lovingly forced to read and write in Italian, and to study grammar schoolbooks brought from Italy. She might cry of (often-staged) pain when finishing her Italian homework; nevertheless, when spending time in Italy with cousins and friends over the summer, she pretends she does not even speak English. The decision to teach language and grammar to our children has been a painful one, especially for us parents. It is a long and frustrating process, but when in Italy an all-rewarding experience. The manifested rationale is that in case we ever go back to Italy the children can go to school and function like all their peers. In reality, it is our firm conviction that language is a highly distinctive identity marker and by pressing them into speaking Italian and understanding the structure of it, we are gifting them with a unique fragment of our beings. Not even nine months in my womb have equipped them with something so similar to myself as my mode of communication. My second-born has learned the

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two languages, Italian and English, at the same time, and when she was younger, she used to mix words without even noticing the switch. Now that she has grown, she is more aware of the differences and can hopefully use this skill to promote positive behaviors. In fact, we consider languages a strong equalizer. Don Lorenzo Milani, a renowned Italian priest and educator of poor children, believed that: “Only the language makes us equal. Equal is he who knows how to express himself and understands the expressions of others.”26 Global children of immigrant diasporic parents, who are able to understand multiple idioms, when encountering “others” have the power to become hinges of mutual understanding and hospitality. And yet, I ask, this second-generation offspring of mobile parents, that arrived in the U.S. as potential skilled laborers, has she ever felt the need to hide her ethnicity? I am not even sure she is aware of what ethnicity is. However, growing up in the U.S., she will certainly face this unescapable categorization. Will she be able to choose when and how to openly discuss her parents’ origin? For sure. Thus, what has changed between young Tomie’s and my daughter’s time? Here is the biggest difference between dePaola and my daughters’ identity in the making. Tomie was a child when Italians were not at all mainstream Americans and the government had concerns about Italians’ public behaviors and adaptability. Within the public sphere, the key constituent of successful acculturation was schooling; hence, the language of the old country was not essential beyond the spatial boundaries of the ethnic enclaves. Moreover, the looming fear of the Literacy Test passed in 1917 as one of the restrictive immigration acts pushed parents to force their offspring into a full-immersion study of English language and grammar, once in school. Consequently, one characteristic shared among sons or grandsons of late nineteenth century’s immigrant laborers, like young Tomie, was that they were not urged to study the grammar of their parents’ mother tongue. Moreover, the majority of immigrant parents were uneducated in Italy and had no means to teach their children basic Italian grammar and syntax. Therefore, most of second- and third-generation Italian-Americans ended up lacking the language—the most empowering tool to declare oneself to be a functioning actor of a particular culture.

26  Milani, Lorenzo, Lettera a una professoressa, (Firenze: Libreria Editrice Fiorentina, 1996), p. 21.

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That day in the North End one of my young readers noted the excessive Americanness of several picture books from Tomie dePaola; at home, my other daughter criticizes the Americanness of certain grammatical errors found in stories like Strega Nona’s Harvest. There, the author attempts to write the calendar in Italian, but it results in a funny mixture of Spanish (luna plena should be piena) and English (the date is written with the English order Month, Day instead of the Italian order Day, Month). Other Italian idioms are dispersed in Strega Nona’s stories and while we like to scream them, proud of the right pronunciation we can produce, they are sometimes just translations of English expressions that really do not make much sense in Italian (e.g., Amore e Baci, which is the translation of Love and Kisses, it is not an idiomatic expression in Italian). However, the images of a magical Italian nonna resonate with my children, as they did with Tomie. Yet, my young readers question why Tomie does not know his spelling. Strega Nona comes from Italy, like grandma. Strega Nona has a magic pot that always makes fresh hot steaming pasta, like grandma. Strega Nona can cure mysterious diseases with herbs and kisses, like grandma. Strega Nona speaks Italian, like grandma. Nevertheless, Strega Nona does not know how to spell very well.27 How is that possible?

Conclusion Tomie dePaola lived through very different times, he did not speak Italian; he was Italian-American. Strega Nona was from Calabria; ergo, she was Italian, but she was also extremely American. How can these two identities reconcile? Using simple syntax might be helpful here to explain this conundrum. My children could do away with the hyphen if they choose to. They can be Italians and they can be Americans, at different times and in different locations. They possess the all-empowering knowledge given by languages, which Tomie’s generation often lacked. In the short story The Displaced Person, Flannery O’Connor treats the issue of immigration and finely captures the power of language in a conversation between Mr. Shortley, the lazy white laborer of the land of Mrs. McIntyre, and the colored boy who also worked in her property. They were unhappy about 27  Nona here stands for grandma, which in Italian is spelled Nonna. I’d like to acknowledge that dePaola clarified that Nona in the books is the given name of his character. Nevertheless, this is not the only linguistic incongruence the Italian public encounters when reading Strega Nona’s stories.

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the presence of the threatening Displaced Person from Poland. Mr. Shortly says: “That’s where we make our mistake,” he said, “—letting all them people onto English. There’d be a heap less trouble if everybody only knew his own language. My wife said knowing two languages was like having eyes in the back of your head. You couldn’t put nothing over on her.”28 Hence, my daughters have eyes in the back of their heads and can disguise or swiftly chose ad hoc identities, while they are also warranted the ability to freely, and often, move between countries. Tomie dePaola’s generation could not. In this context, more flexible in regard to identity declaration and freer of constraints imposed by legal provisions and economic pressures, we understand Strega Nona as a sweet reminder of Italy, not as a signifier of a fixed identity. We accept her flaws and we perceive her as a hyphenated Italian-American. Strega Nona contains the imagined beauty of Italy; she is the embodiment of traditional relationships (i.e., grandmas—keepers of the past with their grand-children) and the quintessential smart, funny, and industrious character that encapsulates some of the shared features of Italianness—the intangible filler of identity vacuums. To conclude, I am not proposing an a-historical categorization of the process of identity building and ethnicity. Instead, I deem it fundamental to study the historical background of the author to conceptualize how his stories came into being. Historical frameworks provide coordinates that allow for a broader understanding of migrant journeys. As in every trip, the spatial coordinates are the key elements to be able to find directions; however, every single voyage has peculiarities that make it unique. Even in a sea of migrants’ stories, universal laws will not shed light on the whole tale.

References Cabaniss, E. R., & Cameron, A. E. (2017). Unassimilable and undesirable’: News elites’ discursive construction of the American immigrant during the Ellis Island years. Discourse & Society, 28(6), 614–634. https://doi. org/10.1177/0957926517710990. Elleman, B. (1999). Tomie DePaola: His art and his stories. G.P. Putnam’s Sons Books for Young Readers. Gans, H. J. (1979). Symbolic ethnicity: The future of ethnic groups and cultures in America. Ethnic and Racial Studies, 2(1), 1–20. https://doi.org/10.108 0/01419870.1979.9993248. 28  O’Connor, Flannery, The Complete Stories, (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux: New  York), 1971, p. 233.

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Green, R. B. (1974). The Italian-American novel: A document of the interaction of two cultures. Associated University Press. Guglielmo, J., & Salerno, S. (2003). Are Italians white?: How race is made in America (1st ed.). Routledge. Hall, S., & Gay, P. (1996). Questions of cultural identity (Reprint ed.). Sage. Hannibal-Paci, C. (2002). Un/settled multiculturalisms: Diasporas, entanglements, transruptions. Ethnohistory, 49(2), 436–439. https://doi.org/10.121 5/00141801-­49-­2-­436. Insana, L. (2006). Strega Nona’s ethnic alchemy: Magic pasta, stregheria and that amazing disappearing “N”. MELUS: Multi-Ethnic Literature of the United States, 31(2), 207–243. https://doi.org/10.1093/melus/31.2.207. Macquarrie, C., & MacQuarrie. (2009). Othering. In A. J. Mills, G. Durepos, & E.  Wiebe (Eds.), Encyclopedia of case study research. Sage. Credo reference: https://ezproxyemc.flo.org/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/ content/entry/sagecsr/othering/0?institutionId=1968 Milani, L. (1996). Lettera a una professoressa. Libreria Editrice Fiorentina. O’Connor, F. (1971). The complete stories (FSG classics) (1st ed.). Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Portes, A., & Zhou, M. (1993). The new second generation: Segmented assimilation and its variants. The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 530(1), 74–96. https://doi.org/10.1177/0002716293530001006. Roberts, P. (1920). The problem of Americanization. Norwood Press. Stager Jacques, R. (2009). Signifier and signified. In A. J. Mills, G. Durepos, & E.  Wiebe (Eds.), Encyclopedia of case study research. Sage. Credo reference: https://ezproxyemc.flo.org/login?url=https://search.credoreference.com/ content/entry/sagecsr/signifier_and_signified/0?institutionId=1968

CHAPTER 15

Rebuilding the American Dream Precious Yamaguchi

The stories of first-generation Japanese Americans are complex and reveal the personal and familial challenges they faced in the United States. These positive and negative experiences have had the power to influence the following generations to come. This chapter focuses on the film American Pastime and how this story about the Nomura family is loosely based upon the real-life Nakano family’s experiences in the Japanese American World War II internment camp. This chapter also goes beyond analyzing the film, American Pastime, to discuss the importance of disrupting the representation of Japanese Americans and their family narratives as model minorities through examining the complexities of assimilation, imprisonment, and the challenges first-generation Japanese Americans faced, using the Nakano family’s intricate history as an example. American Pastime is a film about a Japanese American family imprisoned in the Topaz Relocation Camp in Utah and the role baseball played in internment camp life. The main characters in this film, the twins Lane and Lyle Nomura, played by

P. Yamaguchi (*) Southern Oregon University, Ashland, OR, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5_15

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actors Aaron Yoo and Leonardo Nam, are based on my great-uncles Lane and Lyle Nakano, second-generation Japanese American twins who were born in the United States and their first-generation parents are also represented in the film, American Pastime. The film was written and directed by my uncle’s cousin, Desmond Nakano. Desmond’s father, Lyle Nakano, who was the inspiration for the main character Lyle Nomura in the film, committed suicide nearly 30 years ago. In this chapter, two members of the Nakano family are interviewed to share a deeper meaning to what is referenced in the film, American Pastime, and the stories beyond the cinematic narrative. Though this chapter includes information on the diaspora of Japanese Americans who immigrated from Japan to the United States and then were interned in the World War II internment camps, this writing focuses more on how Japanese American tell the generational story of themselves negotiating the factors of gender, ethnicity, cultural norms, and awareness of shame and pride. Using an anti-colonial framework, I examine the three different ways the story of the Nakano family is told through the use of the film American Pastime, created by Japanese American Desmond Nakano, who tells the story of the first- and second-generation Nomura family (influenced by the real-life individuals of the Nakano family); Lyle Nakano’s son, restaurant and catering consultant Andy Nakano; and Kinue Nakano, the real-life widow of Lyle Nakano. These individuals interviewed tell the background stories of the Nakano family. The interviews provide context about the Nakano family, who inspired the film’s Nomura family. They are woven together with the emails and published interviews with American Pastime’s filmmaker and screenwriter, Desmond Nakano, to tell an even more complex narrative of the representation of Japanese American’s internment camp experience. Looking both within and beyond the confines of media and film, this chapter hopes to highlight the challenges and resilience of Japanese Americans before, during, and after the World War II internment camps, as the struggles first-generation and second-generation Japanese Americans faced were intensified with the imprisonment of the World War II internment camps.

Japanese Americans and World War II What led up to the internment and imprisonment of Japanese Americans is based on a series of events before World War II relating to racial discrimination of Japanese Americans. During World War II, there were

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racist misconceptions of Japanese American people being viewed as an inferior race (Daniels & Kitano, 1970) and as “aliens” in their own country (Bishop, 2000, p. 71). Japanese immigrants were the second group of Asians to come to the United States in the 1850s after the Chinese (Lee, 1999). Most of them relocated from Japan to Hawaii and then from Hawaii to the mainland of the United States. They arrived in large numbers, and the majority of them worked as laborers in plantation, industrial, and agricultural jobs in Hawaii and on the West Coast of the United States. It was not until the early 1900s that anti-Japanese American sentiments began to develop. In 1908, an agreement between Japan and the United States was reached that restricted Japanese men to immigrate into the country but accepted women into the United States (Lee, 1999). In 1909, all Japanese Americans were required to join the Japan Association of America, formed by the Japanese Counselor General in San Francisco, California (Gudykunst, 2001). This association controlled all the immigration and documents for traveling from Japan to the United States. By the 1940s, about 125,000 Japanese Americans in the United States, and 80,000 of them were born in the United States (Gudykunst, 2001). When World War II began, immigration from Japan to the United States was not permitted until the McCarren–Walter Immigration Act in 1952. Due to the previous laws forbidding Japanese men to immigrate to the United States in the 1950s, 86% of the Japanese American population consisted of women. By 1980, there were approximately 700,970 Japanese Americans in the United States. Only a small minority of 43,250 Japanese people were recent immigrants to the United States (Gudykunst, 2001). On December 7, 1941, the Japanese military attacked Pearl Harbor. Two months after the attack on February 19, 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9066, which gave the U.S. Army permission to exile 120,000 Japanese Americans from the West Coast and relocate them into what President Roosevelt himself called “concentration camps” (Daniels, 2002). Any Japanese American who possessed one-­ eighth blood of Japanese ancestry was removed from their homes and put into internment camps in remote areas of the United States away from the Pacific Coast. Japanese Americans left their properties, homes, businesses, were forced to abandon their pets, and pack as much of their belongings as they could into one suitcase each. They were persuaded to pack clothing for all types of weather, medications, and personal bathroom essentials all into one suitcase. Numerous family relics and valuable objects were abandoned. On June 21, 1943, in Korematsu v. the United States, the

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U.S. Supreme Court ruled the internment camps as constitutional, due to it being a necessary action in the time of war. Though Japanese Americans in the Midwest and East Coast were not forced to leave their homes and belongings, many faced brutal discrimination and suspicion as anti-­ Japanese American sentiments took place all across the United States. On December 17, 1944, the United States War Department revoked the internment camps. Still, the interned Japanese Americans had to demonstrate their loyalty by signing affirmatively on an oath questionnaire before they were released (Luther, 2003). Many Japanese Americans were eager to leave the internment camps, but it was a stressful and frightening time for both young and old Japanese Americans since many of them did not have any homes or jobs to return to. Great challenges awaited them since most of them lost their homes, jobs, and belongings, and the country’s political climate and its people still had negative feelings toward Japanese Americans. Many of the older senior citizens and adults who had children and grandchildren had a hard time leaving the camps because they had anxieties imagining how they would start their lives over again (Luther, 2003). In research about the long-term effects of internment camp experiences, Nagata et  al. (1999) wrote that children of Japanese Americans who experienced the World War II internment camps relate and absorb some of their parents’ low self-esteem. Through a voluntary mail-back survey, the researchers compared three groups of Japanese Americans: those who were in the internment camps at a young age; those who were not in the internment camps but had parents who had experienced the camps; and those who had not been in the camps nor had parents in the camps. The authors measured their levels of communication, ethnic socialization, outmarriage (marriage outside of their own ethnic group), general attitudes, family impact, and attitudes on the redress. Important intergenerational findings included that third-generation Japanese Americans who were in the internment camps at an early age experienced differences in communication with their family than ones who were not in the internment camps and families of the interned, third-generation Japanese Americans were the least likely to have discussed the camps as central topics (Nagata et  al., 1999). These findings represent the discomfort and effects the internment camp has on both the people who experienced them and their future generations.

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Generational Identity The intergenerational dialogue between Japanese American children and their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents can give insight into the culture’s stories, struggles, cultural practices, and accomplishments, which have stemmed from their experiences before, during, and after the World War II internment camps. Iwamura (2007) argues that the Japanese American World War II experience was a “defining moment in Japanese American history—one that both informs and haunts Japanese American identity, collective and individual” (p. 939). The histories and genealogies are carried through elders and ancestors and survive through the intergenerational communication of stories passed down from generation to generation. This dialogue of trauma has not always been easy to communicate. This chapter is not only about the Nakano family, it is about Japanese American families and intergenerational communication. Not all Japanese Americans have the same experiences and stories as the Nakano family, but these stories from the Nakano family are part of the interwoven complex quilt of Asian American history. Many Japanese Americans, especially of the issei and nisei generations during World War II, may find similarities and differences to the Nakano family’s stories and the American Pastime film. In Japanese language, the word issei describes the first-generation of people to come to the United States. Sometimes other cultures and individuals may consider the first-generation of their family to be the first person who is born in the United States, but in Japanese American history, issei usually describes the first-generation of the family to arrive in the United States, and the Nisei’s, the second-generation, were the American-­ born children of the isseis. Gosei is the fifth-generation Japanese Americans, like myself, who are experiencing new perspectives of identity, looking forward to our future generations, as well as looking back at our ancestors and their experiences in the United States. The distinction between different generations, such as issei, nisei, sansei, and so on, is often used to describe the generations of Japanese Americans who immigrated to North and South America (Densho, 2019). Generational identity has been an important focus in Asian American studies which has been categorized into different waves (Ono, 2005). The First Wave of Asian American research was directed toward studies on national identity and Asian American issues of political, cultural, and

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intellectual communities. The Second Wave of Asian American Studies has defined itself as a period of questioning and challenging the first phase, as well as seeking lines of power beyond the discourse of victimhood and examining nationalism through historical, social, and organizational frameworks. Critical ways of rethinking the parameters of Asian American studies are the ultimate focus in Ono’s (2005) writing toward drawing attention to the development of the second phase. The emergence of Japanese Americans’ stories in this research strives to go beyond the focus of victimhood and instead reclaim their progress and transference of culture to their future generations. As the writer and director of American Pastime, Desmond Nakano said to me in an email on January 30, 2015, “I’m very happy to hear that you’re showing American Pastime in your course. One of the hopes in making the film was that people would show it as a jumping off point for helping others understand the history.”

The Role of Baseball in the Japanese American Internment Camps The role of baseball in the Japanese American internment camps is significant in the narrative of imprisonment during the World War II internment camps and represented in American Pastime. The ways Japanese American prisoners embraced baseball and the local audiences within the various rural regions display the complexities of identities, nationalism, and the ways people came together to share common interests even through some of the most depressing and racist times. As one internee, George Hatsuo Omachi, stated, “Without baseball, camp life would have been miserable. There was no torture or anything like that. Still, it was humiliating and demeaning being incarcerated in your own country” (Nakagawa, 2014, p. 108). The interest of Japanese Americans internment camp prisoners and how they formed baseball teams was an insertion point on interest for American Pastime’s producer, Barry Rosenbush, who heard an interview with scholar Kerry Yo Nakagawa on the radio while sitting in traffic in Los Angeles (Mori, 2007). Rosenbush and Desmond Nakano, who is the writer and director of the film as well as the son of Lyle Lane Nakano (the individual who is the inspiration for Nomura in American Pastime), collaborated to create American Pastime. As Desmond recalls, “‘We all had

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different family legacies that were molded into the script’” (Mori, 2007). Like the main characters, Lyle and Lane Nomura in the film, the real-life Lyle and Lane Nakano were also nisei (second-generation) Japanese American twins of first-generation Japanese immigrant parents who resided in East Los Angeles before they were imprisoned in the World War II internment camps. They were both well-known and popular within the internment camp and after camp, both in the film and in real life. Although baseball might not have been Lane and Lyle’s main focus in real life, it set an intriguing backdrop to display the complexities of Japanese heritage and American upbringing for many Japanese Americans like Lane and Lyle throughout the first, second, and following generations. “In case of the issei, the government was even against them speaking their native language. Ironically, Uncle Sam did not deny Japanese Americans the opportunity to play baseball. Almost immediately, the detainees set to work developing diamond and erecting backstops” (Nakagawa, 2014, p. 104). With combination of Rosenbush, Nakagawa, and Desmond Nakano’s interests and narratives, the story of American Pastime was formed with Desmond’s father and uncle, Lane and Lyle as the main characters, situated in the World War II internment camp. The World War II Japanese American internment camps influenced and altered Japanese American families’ history and culture throughout the generations. Many Japanese Americans, like my grandparents and great-­ grandparents, speak of lost family relics, homes, businesses, heirlooms, and even language and cultural pride that were lost during this period of time. All four of my grandparents were teenagers when they were imprisoned in the World War II internment camps in Poston, Arizona; Jerome, Arkansas; and Rohwer, Arkansas. When they were released from the internment camps, none of them could attend college because they had to immediately find work as domestic servants, in factories, and in a bowling alley. This type of lifestyle was very similar to the struggles Lyle and Lane Nakano and their first-generation parents had to face while imprisoned and transitioning out of the internment camps.

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An Anti-colonial Approach of Investigating the Generations of Japanese American Families Using film and narrative to document internment stories helps to investigate and acknowledge the complicated and historical moments of colonization that must not be forgotten in U.S. history. Looking deeper into the embedded influences represented in the film American Pastime gives additional information and meaning to the generational narratives of the Nakano family’s and Japanese Americans’ stories as well as contributes to the awareness and remembrance of Japanese American history within the United States. Technology and film give people the power to communicate and have a certain amount of control to use it to their advantage as a way of expression. The scholar Roland Barthes questioned, “how is meaning inserted into an image?” He also questioned, “where does meaning end with an image and what is beyond the limits of the image?” (Barthes & Heath, 1977). During the time of his inquiries he was referring to photographs but this can also relate to stories represented in film as to where the meaning begins, ends, and extends beyond the limits of what is represented on screen. The way many Japanese Americans have communicated their stories of imprisonment is complex, embedded with trauma and negotiations of power, privilege, and post-colonization. Leela Gandhi’s (2006) philosophies on anti-colonial thought focus on how the creations of dualist perspectives striving toward utopian societies often disregard the in-between-ness of other possibilities. The multi-generations of Japanese American families and their perceptions of their identities often lie within that in-betweenness. The increments of power, stability, economy, and citizenship gained have the ability to move individuals farther and farther away from their ancestors of their own former identities of otherness (Ong, 1999). Numerous ethnicities, cultures, countries, and people have experienced and continue to experience colonialism and discrimination every day. Bhabha (1983), Spivak (1986), and Shome (1999) have contributed to the discourse and knowledge of postcolonial studies in the examination of displacement, erasure, or power structures ascribed to one’s culture and cultural history. It is important to acknowledge that postcolonial perspectives are not binary with a beginning and an end of colonization, but an

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investigation of the identities, relationships of colonization, and their past, present, and ongoing transformations and influences. Gandhi’s (2006) work on postcolonialism-turned-anti-colonialism builds upon Foucault’s (1984) various concepts of technologies, genealogies, contextualizing, and historicizing issues about power and knowledge. Gandhi (2006) stresses that Foucault’s argument of research and the uncovering of knowledge about genealogies will run “up against its own desire to postulate a competing and self-defeating enthronement or ‘majorization’ or ‘minor’ thought systems” (p.  182). When we take a closer look at the elements interwoven in historical issues, the postcolonial lens becomes blurred as cultures overlap and intertwine, such as those of Japanese Americans in the United States. Preferably, the anti-colonial lens provide a perspective to examine the complications and contradictions of trauma Japanese Americans experienced while being U.S. citizens imprisoned in their own country; feelings of patriotism while also being viewed as the enemy; and wanting to share their stories but also feeling silenced in various ways. The attempt to dominate the bodies, families, and communities of Japanese American people by displacing them in internment camps hundreds of miles from their homes did not end after they were released from the barbed-wire fences, but their identities were changed after they were imprisoned, shamed, and segregated from society. The postcolonial moment in this event should not be recognized as the moment when Japanese Americans were released from the internment camps because they continued to struggle against many of the American people who still viewed them as enemies. Japanese Americans exist in-between their heritage from Japan, and the United States, their home and nationality. The in-betweenness, crevices, and colonization of Japanese Americans after World War II can also be explained through the issues of hybridity. Gibb (2010) describes hybridity as “central to the fissures caused by colonization and decolonization as well as the healing to be done post-colonization” (p. 236). Analyzing how Japanese Americans have changed their victimization into strength, empowerment, and new opportunities also describes how hybridity is displayed in our identities. The events we use to indicate apparent changes in the culture cannot be based or defined through limited moments of colonialism or the successes or failures of assimilation, but the ongoing power, privilege, and contextual negotiations that are always transforming. The film, American Pastime, represents this hybridity of Japanese Americans imprisoned in desolate areas of their own country,

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participating in “America’s pastime” of baseball and organizing their own teams and leagues. According to Li (2002), “hybridity embraces both anti-colonial and anti-essentialist strategies in confronting and challenging established hegemony” (p. 138). The process of colonization of Japanese Americans was never limited nor confined within the barbed wires of the internment camps; it existed against Japanese Americans in the visibility of their Asian otherness. Through film, issues of colonialism, postcolonialism, and anti-­ colonialism have been addressed, especially in the realm of African film studies. Garritano (2019) describes how critics such as Achille Mbembe “include key terms such as ‘authenticity,’ ‘resistance,’ and ‘agency’ as well as ‘different’ and ‘hybridity’ in their critiques” (Mbembe, 2002, p. 257). The creation of Desmond Nakano telling the story of his family and ancestors in the Japanese American internment camp creates a multi-layered and intergenerational narrative of not only his grandparents, father, and uncle, but his perception and interpretation of their stories. The authenticity is illuminated through the intergenerational absorption of narratives and passing on narratives through different methods of writing, oral communication, arts, and media.

Japanese American Cultural Norms and Disrupting Representations of the Model Minority Similar to the multifaceted task of describing Japanese American identities during and after World War II, discussing cultural communication styles may not be so simple as categorizing the Japanese American communication norms into collectivist versus individualist. Throughout the generations, many Japanese Americans have been raised with Japanese values and norms while also being born into the American culture that embraces a wide variety of cultural norms and environments depending on the different regions of the country and the neighborhoods within them. A couple of the Japanese American communication norms such as enryo and gaman express a variation of holding back, suppressing emotions, and maintaining a certain amount of politeness when communicating (especially when speaking about traumatic events or issues that can raise sadness, anger, or can threaten the balance of harmony) are useful to know when watching the film American Pastime and when observing Japanese

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American communication throughout their generations. These Japanese norms are sometimes overlooked in some of the previous studies on Japanese Americans’ communication. The cultural communication styles of enryo and gaman are difficult to define in the English language; there is no one word that describes the values and defines the natural acts of these words in a Japanese and Japanese American communication context. They are both words meaning to suppress emotions. In general Japanese Americans place an emphasis and deep value on the concepts of modesty or not wanting to express anger or sadness. In order to research aspects of Japanese Americans’ communication, especially throughout the later generations and intergenerationally, it is important to know characteristics from their culture derived from Buddhism and common Japanese beliefs, such as the concepts of enryo and gaman. Nagata and Cheng (2003) refer to these inherited communication styles of Japanese Americans. Enryo expresses the way in which a person practices self-restraint and gaman describes the way in which Japanese Americans suppress their emotions; both concepts are used to maintain harmonious effects in communication and go beyond face-­saving strategies (Nagata & Cheng, 2003). Through discussing these two specific concepts embedded in Japanese American values, especially within the issei and nisei generations, it is important to disrupt the stereotype of Japanese Americans and Asian Americans of being model minorities. What may be viewed as passives styles of communication may actually be norms that are not initially understood by non-Japanese Americans. While many Japanese Americans, as shown in the film, American Pastime, were patriotic, hardworking, and stayed out of the trouble, a few individuals did not fit into this mold. The model minority stereotype in general is not accepted by most Asian American and critical scholars due to the negative consequences it has caused (Chan, 1991) and the misconception it has made between the relationship of Asian Americans’ cultural norms and children’s educational success (Hu, 1989). As shown in the following interviews with Andy Nakano and Kinue Nakano, just like most ethnicities, Japanese Americans have  had challenges such as gambling and substance abuse. Previous research has shown that the model minority stereotype of Asian Americans, including of themselves, has prevented individuals from seeking mental health services due to the shame it may cause upon their family (Sue & Morishima, 1980). Incorporating narratives that reveal the hardships, including delinquency, substance abuse, and crime, should not taint the

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representation of immigrants and ethnic communities, but provide insight into some of the challenges, difficulties, and hardships they face as well as resources needed.

Andy Nakano: Reflecting on the Firstand Second-­Generations of the Nakano Family American Pastime has some discrepancies in the representation of the Nakano twins, Lyle and Lane, due to the auteur’s creative freedom in storytelling and filmmaking. There are some significant areas that remain true to the film such as there were actual Japanese American twins, Lane and Lyle, who were imprisoned in the World War II Japanese American internment camps from East L.A., who socialized among their community, took on various hobbies and interests, and also were willing to serve in the military. One of the main differences between the film and real lives of Lane and Lyle is that the twins were imprisoned in the Heart Mountain internment camp in Montana, and in the film they are in the Topaz, Utah, internment camp, and they did not enter the same internment camp as their father. The focus of baseball played a very significant role in the film and in several of the real-life Japanese American internment camps, though it may not have been the center of Lane and Lyle’s real-life stories. One thing that is well known about Lane and Lyle is that in the internment camp and after the internment camp, they were quite popular among their peers in the Japanese American communities. Their story goes beyond the barbed wire as they became very successful and well-known in the Japanese American communities after the internment camp. Lyle Nakano was well-­ known for owning the famous restaurant, bar, and club, Imperial Garden, on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles, and Lane Nakano had several roles in Hollywood films. American Pastime is an interpretation of what life may have been like inside of the Japanese American World War II internment camps for my relatives, Lyle and Lane, when they were teenagers growing up with their parents. The interviews I am about to share, with Lyle Nakano’s widow and son, provide additional insight into his life after he was released from the Japanese American internment camps. According to Andy Nakano, the son of Lyle,  the story of his first-­ generation grandmother acknowledges an array of difficulties and poverty while raising six children on her own, while her husband (Andy Nakano’s

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grandfather) faced a tragic gambling problem that affected their family in a number of ways. The story of Andy’s grandmother and grandfather provides insight into the realistic hardships immigrant families may face and gives a significantly important historical context to what happened prior to the Nakano family before World War II.  His narrative about his father, Lyle Nakano’s life, was greatly influenced by his grandmother’s strength, a young woman who immigrated from Japan, and raised her family mostly on her own in East L.A. and through the World War II Japanese American internment camps. Here he shares the narratives of the first and second-­ generations of his family: The Nakano family name has a lot of weight associated with it, partially due to our family’s history, the way my father, Lyle, and his twin brother Lane were very social in Los Angeles, and the different businesses my family has been involved in. Both of my grandparents (Lyle and Lane’s parents) immigrated from Fukuoka, Japan, sometime before World War II.

Andy’s grandmother was in her 20s when she immigrated to the United States. She came from a family that was associated with the sake brewing business and his grandfather’s family was in the field of finances and accounting. They settled in the neighborhood of Boyle Heights, Los Angeles. During the years before World War II, Andy’s grandfather developed a gambling problem. The grandfather would gamble with other men in a hotel on First Street in Little Tokyo, Los Angeles. One night a fight broke out at the hotel and his grandfather obtained a firearm and shot a man. The grandfather was imprisoned and during that time, the grandmother was impoverished with six children. Due to her husband’s gambling problem, she faced an incredible amount of hardships and poverty. Andy shared in his narrative: When my grandfather was arrested and put in jail, my grandmother was so poor, she had no choice other than to put her two daughters in foster care out of desperation. Their sons started to be street kids, doing paper routes and whatever they could to get some money. When my grandmother finally had enough money, she brought her daughters back from foster care. Then the bombing of Pearl Harbor took place and my grandmother and her children were relocated and interned at Santa Anita Racetrack in California. Our family was relocated again from Santa Anita to the Heart Mountain, Wyoming, internment camp.

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Andy’s uncle, Lane Nakano (father of the American Pastime filmmaker Desmond Nakano, and the twin brother of Lyle Nakano), went to Chicago and enlisted in the Japanese American 442nd battalion to serve with the U.S. military in World War II. Andy’s father, Lyle, tried to go to Chicago to enlist in the military but was unable to  due to an arm injury. Their grandmother and her sister were eventually relocated again to the Amache internment camp in Colorado, where they were reunited with her husband (Lane and Lyle’s father) grandfather one last time before he was deported back to Japan. Most Japanese Americans on the West Coast who had criminal records were deported back to Japan during World War II. Andy recalls: Most of my cousins who are the children of my grandmother and grandfather’s children, may have never learned about the history of our grandmother and grandfather. In Japanese culture, one’s family name is strongly tied to the pride or shame of the family, and for my grandmother’s children and grandchildren to not feel shame of the negative repercussions associated with our grandfather, my grandmother told people, including her grandchildren, that my grandfather had died. My grandmother was a proud woman, but was often poor because of my grandfather, and after he was deported she and his children never saw him again.

Andy disclosed that he may be one of the only grandchildren who know that their grandfather was a gambler, shot somebody, then went to prison, and was deported back to Japan. He is uncertain if the other grandchildren within his family know about their grandparents like he does because it’s not something they discuss. He shares: I don’t know if my other siblings and cousins know about it, I never felt it was my place to tell my other cousins about it because my grandmother and their parents had all told them that our grandfather died. A few of them may also know the truth. The reason I know the truth is because when I was growing up there was a period where I was getting in trouble a lot. My mother eventually told me I needed to stop causing trouble because it would bring shame to our family name, and she told me the story of my grandfather as an example, even though we had always been told he had died.

Andy views his grandmother’s resilience as one of the most important contributions to the story of the first-generation of his family. He also feels it is a story that should be shared out of pride rather than shame because of his grandmother’s determination and strength to do her best while

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raising her six children with a husband who gambled their money away and was eventually imprisoned and deported back to Japan. The history my Uncle Andy Nakano shared gives insight into the lives of the real-life Lane and Lyle Nakano, before they were imprisoned in the World War II internment camps and first- and second-generation Japanese Americans. Andy concludes: Looking back on my family history, I feel there’s the misconception that events such as the ones associated with my grandfather are so shameful, but it’s important to see on the other hand how optimistic and resilient my grandmother was through all of this and the challenges her children, including my father, aunts, and uncles, and all the Japanese Americans who were in the internment camps overcame. Regardless of my grandmother struggling with poverty due to my grandfather’s gambling and getting deported, my father, his siblings, and their children have all managed to find success or marry well and that’s something first-generation and second-generation Japanese Americans should really be proud of in our history.

The pressures of success, positive image, and the pride of one’s family name also contribute to the erasure of family stories and histories that may reflect shame and embarrassment upon a family in Japanese American culture. The shame Andy’s grandfather inflicted upon his family due to his gambling problem, the shooting of another man, the imprisonment, and deportation influenced the erasure of his whole being within the Nakano family in America. Once he was deported back to Japan, as Andy mentioned, his grandmother had told people he had died even though he was sent back to Japan to live the rest of his life. Instead of seeking support from her family and friends, she moved forward. A story such as this goes against the stereotype of Japanese Americans as the model minority, but also deserves a type of respect in its own way, mostly for the grandmother who raised six children on her own  as a single-mother through poverty and war.

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Kinue Nakano: The Trauma and Hard Work of Japanese Americans After the World War II Internment Camps Kinue, Lyle Nakano’s widow, was born in Lomeda, California, and is a Nisei (second-generation), Japanese American woman. Like Lane and Lyle, who were very popular and well-known in the Japanese American community in Los Angeles, Kinue Nakano has also attracted the attention of many Japanese Americans, especially within the issei and nisei generations due to her networking, hard work, and beauty. At 12 years old, she and her family were evacuated to the Heart Mountain internment camp in Wyoming. When she thinks back on the internment camps, she says, “The purpose [of the internment camps] to me was horrific. No privacy, I hated the bathrooms, no privacy there.” Kinue called the U.S. Japanese American World War II camps “concentration camps,” which is a term that has been accurately used in literature about the camps. It is understandable to see how a young girl at age 12 would feel self-conscious in a bathroom where there was no privacy. During our interview, we sat inside of Kinue’s beautiful and spacious house in Glendale, California. She collects antiques and has an immaculately clean house. She even baked a whole carrot cake as a present for me to take home. Her house is less than a mile away from the Glendale Community College and she thinks about her education often: I guess my biggest regret was the insecurity of never having a college education. I could go now. I could walk to the thing [Glendale Community College], but I’m too lazy. With the discussion in my family, I’ve always used excuses, saying, “Yeah, I didn’t get a college education because of the war.” I don’t have the motivation to do it. Of course my husband (Lyle), he was not educated either. He had skills, which you can’t get in school, which are people skills. See, he was the most charismatic person ever and if you were to talk to 10 people they would probably all say that too. But that in turn, became his downfall.

Several years after the internment camps, Kinue and her husband became the owners of the very well-known restaurant in Los Angeles on Sunset Boulevard, Imperial Gardens. This popular restaurant, bar, and nightclub was famous in the 1980s. The restaurant was three floors and was in an excellent location. Kinue describes the restaurant:

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See, being in that environment, all the celebrities, Frank Sinatra and stuff, Lyle was on a first-name basis with them. That’s how he was. They gave him autographs but in that environment he started using drugs and alcohol and I encouraged him to seek help at Betty Ford [rehabilitation center]. With the use of drugs and the changing of the whole restaurant climate in L.A., we had customers that used to come every week. His drugs were getting totally out of hand, we were very fortunate to sell [the restaurant]. He sold [it] in 1984. Then in that point in time, I [already] knew in 1982, I would have to get a job and so I did. I knew I was going to have to stand on my feet.

After Kinue and her husband, Lyle, sold the restaurant, Kinue began working at the Los Angeles’ Great Western Forum nightclub. The Great Western Forum was home to the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team before The Staples Center was built. She never watched a basketball game before nor had she even heard for the Lakers basketball team prior to working at the Forum. Nonetheless, Kinue began working at the nightclub during the mid-1980s. Her work and career helped her build self-­ esteem and kept her life very active. When she talks about her job at the Forum, her face lights up and she says: I heard that after I came in, it was the largest generating venue of the private clubs. That made me feel good and I thought, hey, without an education! (Laughs). I managed to … well, bottom line for me it managed to boost my self-esteem. I kind of felt good, but I guess I have to say a lot of women of my generation—relatives—they worked.

Kinue continued to describe how she found joy and empowerment through working. Social networking and her job kept her occupied, but also distracted from some of the negative events going on in her daily life. Kinue recalls: So with the dysfunction that was going on in my family, I’ve always felt … well with my husband, 30 years ago he took his life. During that time, I was working. And I went to work two weeks after and to me that was my salvation. With my husband it was by choice, but (crying) finding him … it took me one year to feel that Lyle was not going to come through that door. My husband had left a note, he didn’t want a funeral. But it does give it closure.

These events and feelings that occurred are all part of the dialogue in discussing the first- and second-generation Japanese Americans community and communication. Lyle Nakano, one of the six children of his

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mother who raised them mostly herself after their father was deported back to Japan, worked incredibly hard at the Imperial Gardens restaurant. Kinue describes her husband’s work and lifestyle as factors that led to substance abuse and dysfunction at home. The interviews of Andy Nakano and Kinue Nakano reflect the challenges, struggles, and also determination of the first- and second-generation Japanese American women who endured the difficulties of raising children and working after they were released from the internment camps. The way both Andy’s grandmother and Kinue proceeded forward after tragic events was something Andy felt Japanese American people should feel proud of rather than shameful. Watching American Pastime also helps bring to life the dramatization and enactment and representation of Lane and Lyle Nakano when they were teenagers but it only tells part of the story, mostly within the confines of the internment camp and through the interest of baseball. As Barthes and Heath (1977) questioned, “where does meaning end with an image and what is beyond the limits of the image?” A good amount of the Nakano story begins and continues with the strength of determined women who carried the responsibilities of family and work, the best they could.

Reflections of Generations, Family, and Ethnic History The reflection of family, culture, ethnicity, gender, and generational identity through the film American Pastime and the interviews of Andy and Kinue Nakano provide insight into the first- and second-generation Japanese Americans who were in the World War II internment camps. American Pastime was created by Japanese American director and screenwriter, Desmond Nakano, who tells the story of his Nakano grandparents, father, and uncle through the imagined narrative of Nomura family in the Topaz internment camp. Like McWilliams (2019) on Thi Bui’s graphic memoir, The Best We Could, American Pastime also engages “transgenerational issues of trauma, gender, and cultural identity” (p. 316). The complexity of generational and ethnic identities of Japanese heritage and American life is displayed in different ways through the first-generation and second-generation of the Nomura family. Madison (2005) writes the performance of peoples’ lives helps to understand their experiences, and all humans perform in ways relating to their identities and communities;

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this can be said of Japanese Americans who were in the World War II internment camps. Desmond creates an embodiment of his family’s story to life, starting with his families’ names and identities set in the backdrop of their internment camp experience, providing the tangible American interest in baseball as an entryway for non-Japanese Americans to engage in the complexities of the Japanese American life. Through the anti-colonial framework, the analysis of film along with the interviews of Andy and Kinue Nakano in this chapter aims to further disrupt the confines and boundaries of the model minority Asian American and Japanese American stereotypes. Through integrating the hardships, challenges, and even criminal stories of first- and second-generation Japanese American families, a deeper story is revealed that emphasizes not the people who have brought shame upon the family, but the individuals who have held the families together through difficult times. Moving beyond the fear and focus of bringing shame to a family’s name re-frames the successes, achievements, and empowerment of Japanese Americans, oftentimes women, who have worked, negotiated, and cared for their families. Rejecting the model minority misrepresentation and also the fear of shame provides realistic pathways for Japanese Americans to confront their challenges and, hopefully, seek resources. Our identities change and transform due to many factors such as generation, age, regions of where we live, and more. Viewing the representation of Japanese Americans in the World War II internment camp in media and films such as American Pastime reflects the complexity of Japanese American identities and generational histories. The information and representation of what Japanese Americans reveal and share about themselves relate to the critical concerns of feminist research made by Butler (2004) about humaneness and the dimensions of how the loss of humanness are enacted upon. The ongoing feelings and memories of colonization, imprisonment, relocation, and discrimination from World War II are influenced but not limited to physical imprisonment and physical liberation from the internment camps. The focus on only physical imprisonment and liberation creates a dualistic status that ignores the mental and intergenerational concepts of colonization that can last far beyond the moment when people are liberated from colonization. Furthermore, the freedom to look beyond events that may be perceived as shameful and embarrassing, and instead, embrace ways individuals have endured, overcome, and managed challenges provides broader perceptions of Japanese Americans, especially for themselves.

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References Barthes, R., & Heath, S. (1977). Image, music, text. New York: Hill and Wang. Bhabha, H. (1983). Difference, discrimination, and the discourse of colonialism. In F. Barker, et al. (Eds.), The politics of theory. Colchester, U.K.: University of Essex. Bishop, R. (2000). To protect and serve: The “guard dog” function of journalism in coverage of the Japanese-American internment. Journalism and Communication Monographs, 2, 65–95. Butler, J. (2004). Undoing gender. New York, NY: Routledge. Chan, S. (1991). Asian Americans: An interpretive history. Boston: Twayne. Daniels, R. (2002). Incarcerating Japanese Americans. Magazine of History, 16, 19–24. Daniels, R., & Kitano, H. (1970). American racism. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Densho. (2019). Terminology - Densho: Japanese American incarceration and Japanese internment. Densho. https://densho.org/terminology Foucault, M. (1984a). Truth and power. In P. Rabinow (Ed.), The Foucault reader (pp. 51–75). New York: Pantheon Books. Foucault, M. (1984b). The body of the condemned. In P.  Rabinow (Ed.), The Foucault reader (pp. 171–178). New York: Pantheon Books. Gandhi, L. (2006). Affective communities: Anti-colonial thought, Fin-De-Siecle radicalism, and the politics of friendship. Durham: Duke University Press. Garritano, C. (2019). Living precariously in the African postcolony: Debt and labor relations in the films of Mahamat-Saleh Haroun. Journal of Cinema and Media Studies, 58(2), 23–45. Gibb, J. (2010). Victory of the Ash Buttocks: The role of hybridity in colonization, decolonization, and postcolonization. Letters – Literature, 87, 235–243. Gudykunst, W.  B. (2001). Asian American ethnicity and communication. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Hu, A. (1989). Asian Americans: Model minority or double minority? Amerasia Journal, 15(1), 243–257. Iwamura, J. N. (2007). Critical faith: Japanese Americans and the birth of a new civil religion. American Quarterly, 59, 937–968. Lee, R. (1999). Orientals: Asian Americans in popular culture. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Li, H. (2002). From alterity to hybridity: a query of double consciousness. Philosophy of Education, 138-146. Luther, C.  A. (2003). Reflections of cultural identities in conflict: Japanese American internment camp newspapers during World War II. Journalism History, 29, 69–83. Madison, D.  S. (2005). Critical ethnography: Method ethics, and performance. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage.

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Mbembe, A. (2002). African modes of self-writing. Public Culture, 4, 257. McWilliams, S. (2019). Precarious memories and affective relationships in Thi Bui’s The best we could do. Journal of Asian American Studies, 23, 315–348. Mori, D. (2007, August 24). Baseball in the camps: Behind the scenes of “American Pastime.” Discover Nikkei. Retrieved from http://discovernikkei.org/en/ journal/2007/8/24/american-­pastime/ Nagata, D.  K., & Cheng, W. (2003). Intergeneration communication of race-­ related trauma by Japanese American former internees. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 73, 266–278. Nagata, D. K., Trierweiler, S. J., & Talbot, R. (1999). Long-term effects of internment during early childhood on third-generation Japanese Americans. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 69, 19–29. Nakagawa, K.  Y. (2014). Japanese American baseball in California: A history. Charleston, SC: The History Press. Ong, A. (1999). Flexible citizenship: The cultural logics of transnationality. Durham: Duke University Press. Ono, K. (Ed.). (2005). Asian American studies after critical mass. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing. Shome, R. (1999). Whiteness and the politics of location: Postcolonial reflections. In T.  K. Nakayama & J.  N. Martin (Eds.), Whiteness: The communication of social identity. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Spivak, G. C. (1986). Imperialism and sexual difference. Oxford Literary Review, 8, 1 – 2. Sue, S., & Morishima, J. (1980). The mental health of Asian Americans. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass.

Index1

A ABC, 204, 217 Acculturation, 3 Acculturation theory, 5 Adaptation, 9, 36 Adaptation Phase, 37 Adjustment Stage, 37 African Booty Scratcher, 15–17 African immigrants, 125, 127, 128 African Time (2016), 113 Afro-Sino-Caribbean-American, 204 All-American Girl (AAG), 204, 231 All in Family, 214 Alternative narrative, 285 Amazon Prime Video, 137 American dream, 56, 74, 92, 114, 116, 188, 196, 205, 208, 243, 307–325 American Pastime, 315 Ancestral, 156, 169 Anti-immigrant, 112

Arab and Muslim characters, 140 Asian American, 52 Asian American immigrant mobility, 52 Asian immigrants, 51 Aspirational capital, 190 Autocritography, 206 Autoethnography, 239 Autohistoria-teoría, 237 B Basile, 296 Berry, J. W., 5 Bicultural identity, 6 Biculturalism, 36 Bob Hearts Abishola, 113 Border, 73 Border crossing, 103, 174, 241 Borders, 53, 68, 223 Britain’s colonization, 121

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 O. O. Banjo (ed.), Immigrant Generations, Media Representations, and Audiences, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-75311-5

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INDEX

C Capetanos, Leon, 39 CBS’s, 113, 139 Chad, 113 Cho, Margaret, 204 Citizen, 54 The Citizen (2013), 32 Citizenship, 76, 95 Class, 51 Coco, 155 Colonial, 78 Colonial history, 55 Colonial masters, 128 Colonial mentality, 228, 230 Colonization, 314 Community cultural wealth, 189–191 The Cosby Show, 214 Counter-narrative, 283 Crazy Rich Asians (2014), 50 Critical Discourse Analysis, 71 Critical race, 189 Critical racial literacy, 104 Critical textual analysis, 116 Cuban-American, 70 Cultural, 174 Cultural hybridity, 6, 138 Cultural negotiations, 281–283 Cultural translators (CTs), 156 Cultures Shock (2019), 33, 37, 112, 117 D The Debut, 232 Decolonization, 315 Decolonizing, 253n16 Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA), 244 Desi, 281 Devious Maids, 244 Diaspora, 12, 285 Diasporic, 175, 250, 301

Diasporic audiences, 254 Diasporic parents, 303 Discourse, 90, 314 Discourses of citizenship and belonging, 239 Discrimination, 3, 22, 98–100, 125, 126, 128, 190, 206, 275, 294, 325 Discrimination and ghettoization, 292 Disney/Pixar, 150, 155, 156 Dominant narratives of assimilation and acculturation, 230 E East Los High, 244 Enactment, 194, 324 Ethnic communities, 9, 272, 292, 295, 318 Ethnicity, 51 Ethnic media, 19 European colonialism, 122 F Familial capital, 190 Filipino Americans, 228 First-and second-generation Americans, 137, 294 First-and second-generation Latinxs, 175 First Gen, 113, 185 First-generation, 5, 52, 70, 116, 224 First-generation American immigrants, 197 First-generation Americans, 290 First-generation American women, 206 First generation Bangladeshis, 281 First generation immigrant, 114, 197, 271 First-generation Indian-American, 209

 INDEX 

First-generation matriarchs, 94 First generation Mexican American, 237 First-generation narratives, 234 First-generation Nigerian, 185 Five-stage process, 296 Freeform, 70 Fresh Off the Boat, 194, 217 G Generational narratives, 314 Geopolitical borders, 174 George Lopez Show, 91 Globalization, 68, 242, 252, 272 Gosei, 311 Gosselaar, Mark-Paul, 231 Growing Up Immigrant (2018), 113 H Halmeoni, 208 HBO’s Torn Apart, 82 Homeland, 19, 63, 98, 121, 140, 222 The honeymoon stage, 35 Hulu, 137 Hybrid, 243, 252, 254 Hybrid assimilation, 6 Hybrid identities, 254 Hybridity, 6, 241, 280, 294, 315 Hybrid peoples, 158 Hybridization, 294 Hyphenated identities, 296 I Identity formation, 242–243 Identity-making, 238 Immersion, 8 Immigrant border communities, 115 Immigrant experience, 81 Immigrant Nation, 82, 112–113

331

Immigrants, 32 Immigration and diaspora literature, 283 Immigration history, 53 Immigration narratives, 76 Increasing Participation, 35, 37 Intergenerational, 209 Intergenerational bonding, 215 Intergenerational communication, 311 Intergenerational cultural differences, 213 Intergenerational dialogue, 311 Intergenerational interactions, 213 Intergenerationally acculturated families, 214 Intergenerational narrative, 316 Intergenerational strife, 212 Intergenerational struggles, 216 Intergenerational womanhood, 205 Internalization, 9, 53 Internalized, 76, 224, 261 Internalized inferiority and oppression, 228 International licensing, 151 Intra-group discrimination, 75 Issei, 311 Italian American’s storytelling traditions, 290 J Jane The Virgin, 93–94, 194, 237 Japanese Americans, 315 Japanese colonization, 54 The Joy Luck Club (1989), 50 K Kadi, Sam, 39 Korean American, 52 Korean women, 213

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L “La Chancla”, 172 Latinidad, 90, 243 Legacies of colonialism, 229, 234 Licensing, 150–152 Linguistic capital, 189 Living Undocumented, 112 Lopez, George, 69 Lost, 140 M Media narratives, 284 Mexican immigrants, 91 Migrant experience, 91 Migration stories, 227 Mobility, 53 Mobility myth, 56 Model minority stereotype, 317 Modern Family, 244 Moscow on the Hudson (1984), 32 Multiple worlds framework, 6 Muslim characters, 139 Myth-making, 259 The myth of the American Dream, 229 Myths, 92, 242, 262 N Narratives, 64, 122, 138, 194 Narratives of citizenship, 94 Naturalized, 54 Navigational capital, 189 Negotiating homelife and school, 188 Negotiation, 158, 159, 243 Netflix, 82, 137 Nigerian Americans, 112 Nigresensce model, 8 Nisei’s, 311 Nostalgia culture, 69

O Obama, Barack, 97, 276 One Day at a Time, 67, 93–94 1.5 generation, 5 Oppositional representations, 93 Orange Is the New Black, 244 Orji, Yvonne, 185 Othering, 291 P Party of Five, 78 Performance, 194, 324 Permanent residence, 54 Personalized narratives, 92 Postcolonial, 314 Postcolonial perspectives, 122, 314 Postcolonial scholarship, 158 Pre-encounter stage, 8 Prejudice, 3, 128, 190 Prejudiced representation, 273 The Preliminary Phase, 37 President Obama, 244 Privileged, 63, 315 Q Qualitative discourse analysis, 191 R Race, 51, 89 Race, gender, and other identities, 190 Racial discrimination of Japanese Americans, 308 Racism, 126 Rae, Issa, 186 Ramy, 138 Re-entry Phase, 38 Refugees, 32 Re-making identities, 285

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Representation, 324 Resist, 68 Resistance capital, 189 Resistance to white supremacy, 105 The restrictive immigration acts, 303 Role distancing, 118

T Token immigrant, 221 Transnational, 16, 81, 174, 175, 224, 250–252, 272, 285, 298 Transnational communities, 5 Transnational media, 19

S Second-generation, 5, 112, 227, 271 Second-generation Bangladeshis, 282 Second-generation immigrants, 72 Second-generation Latina, 159 Second-generation Muslims, 285 Self-Categorization Theory, 5 Sleeper Cell, 140 Social capital, 190 Social Identity Theory, 5 Socio-economic mobility, 50 The Spectator Phase, 37 The spectator stage, 35 The Stages of Being Foreign, 32 Stereotypes, 115, 139, 302, 317 Storytelling, 189 Streaming, 116, 186 Streaming platforms, 137 Strega Nona, 290 SuperStore, 244 Symbolic annihilation, 11 Symbolic ethnicity, 295

U Ugly Betty, 69, 91, 175, 243, 251 Undocumented, 76, 88, 244 Upward mobility, 159, 232, 239, 245 Upward social mobility, 188 W Whiteness, 78, 87, 122, 194, 224–229, 241, 244 Whiteness and Otherness, 228 White supremacist ideologies, 112 Whitewash, 194, 204 Working class, 52 World War II, 325 X Xenophobia, 190 Y Yoruba, 121