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By louka yeoul Just like I did in the Mark Lee article, I want to take this time to point out instances of cultural appropriation, which Stray Kids recently released a vague apology for amid renewed calls from fans to take accountability. Perhaps this sheds hope for a more inclusive and educated society, as idols aim to be role models… I also would like to add this: if potentially interested in the songs analyzed in this piece, I recommend listening to “SKZ2020,” in which Stray Kids re-recorded old songs after a former member (Woojin) left the band. Since then, victims have come forward claiming that he sexually assaulted them—and I want to make it clear that I do not support him or condone sexual assault. Since he has not been a part of the band for about a year now, if interested in Stray Kids, please consider listening to the new versions of the songs I am analyzing to support the eight—not nine—of them.
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By Shiva Chopra In the months after George Floyd's murder, my Instagram feed started filling up with photos. The normal Monets with their fluffy dresses and the jewel-tone balloon dogs from Koons were replaced by regular appearances by influential Black artists: David Hammons' “Untitled (African-American Flag)” or the neon light spelling "America" by Glenn Ligon. Curiously, however, these pictures did not seem to come from the places where those artworks are housed. Cultural institutions, galleries and museums have been mostly silent; many have taken months to respond to the social debate while others have yet to comment. Black Lives Matter's protests encourage many companies to dig inward, do better. Promises for reform rippled through the art world after numerous calls to action from activists and artists. Hauser & Wirth, a blue-chip gallery with a range of artists, has reported its commitment to finding solutions; other galleries have vowed to audit their processes and identify measures for improvement. Tate shared a photo of “No Woman No Cry” by Chris Ofili, a painting which protests police brutality, thus describing the gallery’s responsibility to speak out for human rights and anti-racism. Some settled for quotes from Martin Luther King.
By louka yeoul I first found out about Han Jisung—known by his stage name Han—through his singing. Imagine my surprise when I found out that he’s actually the main rapper in the JYP-managed Stray Kids. As well, he’s involved in 3Racha, the group within the band that produces and writes Stray Kids’ songs, so he plays a part in everything they’ve released. (Though in this article, I’ll be focusing on three songs he’s mainly written and produced himself.) Han is startlingly multi-talented, and he’s always inspired me; he attempts to help others, and his prowess lies in specifically aiming to help those dealing with any level of anxiety, which he has experience with. It’s different when someone—especially when they’re from your same heritage, one that ignores and stigmatizes mental illnesses—gets it. By taking that step forward as an idol to be honest and firm about his mental health, he’s setting an example for those who look up to him. Listening to his songs lends comfort and mutual understanding as a result. He knows, and he’s allowing for those with mental illnesses to find subtle support.
By louka yeoul Before I begin this article, it’s necessary to note that quite a few of the performers on “High School Rapper” have appropriated Black culture. While K-hip-hop mainly has issues with stealing from Black artists, K-pop as a whole has appropriated from other cultures as well. Many fans—mostly BIPOC—try to hold idols accountable, yet there are always those who attempt to speak over their voices. As such, I think it’s relevant to include a few links that will explain the cultural appropriation that goes on in the South Korean entertainment and music industries; I want to make space here to shed light on the topic, as avoiding it only adds further harm. Here is a good starting point, which talks about racism and colorism in South Korea and the irony of the fetishization and appropriation of Black culture. This article talks about the disrespectful use of a Hindu god and also links to other examples of cultural appropriation. Mark Lee performed “Drop” with Red Velvet’s Seulgi in the final round of “High School Rapper,” an elimination-based show for, well, high school-aged rappers to see who among them is the best. Lee belongs to SM-Entertainment-managed NCT, a K-pop group, and while he had achieved success before his participation on the show, he battled against the label of “idol rapper,” which belittles those in the K-pop industry as “fake” rappers. Given that he persisted until the final rounds when no one expected a K-pop idol to even last on the show and that he played a significant role in writing the lyrics, “Drop” can be seen as a culmination of Lee’s efforts in breaking free from stereotypes and truly finding himself. Thus, I’ve always seen this song as a message of support.
By louka yeoul I’ve grown up quite accustomed to racist comments, so I pushed my Korean heritage as far away from me as possible throughout my childhood. As a result, K-pop was never something I wanted to come close to. But with the rising popularity of the genre, overt racism gave way to a more ironic and subtle fetishization. All of a sudden, being Korean was… trendy. Interesting. The contrasting attitudes were certainly confusing; and while K-pop did help me accept my identity, that definitely didn’t stem from all the people suddenly obsessed with my ethnicity. While I was uncomfortable with myself and the people who saw me as part of an aesthetic instead of a person, I finally decided to give K-pop a go in 2015. I was on a school break and terribly lonely, and I needed something to escape into, whatever it was. So I chose the music closest to me, since so many people I knew enjoyed K-pop, and I was sort of on the fringes of its various fandoms anyways. In other words: I started becoming a fan in eighth grade, right as I was tumbling into the pinnacle of teenagehood. I hadn’t thought much about me before. I had always felt alone. But K-pop forced me to confront myself and the awkwardness which I had been stumbling through thus far.
By Jessica Liu For hundreds of years, minorities have borne the brunt of America’s legacy of systemic oppression. From undergoing a forcible uprooting from their homeland to resisting the death of their culture and languages, Native Americans have long endured this burden. Joy Harjo, the first Native American Poet Laureate, unpacks themes–of resiliency, destruction, memory, and the power of storytelling–shaped by her heritage as a member of the Mvskoke/Creek Nation in the poetry collection "An American Sunrise." In doing so, she pays homage to her rich tribal culture. In her poem “Break My Heart” lingers the reminder that no matter how distant, “history will always find you, and wrap you / In its thousand arms”: Harjo’s poetry stems from her return to Okfuskee, Oklahoma, where her ancestors, the Mvskoke people, were violently uprooted and forced west under the Indian Removal Act of 1830.
By Jessica Liu “Here’s the house with childhood / whittled down to a single red trip wire,” the speaker declares in “Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong,” part of Ocean Vuong’s 2016 poetry collection "Night Sky with Exit Wounds." Indeed, the collection pares down a medley of emotions and past experiences into haunting poetry that lingers in the middle of intersections between past and present, masculinity and femininity, Vietnam and America. Vuong, a gay, Vietnamese-American man, is no stranger to these dichotomies himself. His heritage and identity seep into his poetry, offering unique vulnerability to his words. The collection begins a discussion of the rippling impacts of familial bonds with the poem “Threshold,” in which the speaker watches his father sing in the shower. The father drifts beyond the speaker’s reach like an apparition, "the rain / falling through him" as if he were only a shadow. Similar visions of the narrator’s often-absent father linger across multiple poems as a testament to the lasting influence of one’s roots and upbringing. At one point, the narrator wishes “the day will close without / the page turning as [his father] wraps his arms around / the boy’s milk-blue shoulders”; this sense of longing permeates the book.
By Anya Shukla This week, I checked out Tacoma Art Museum's (TAM) “Black Artists” collection. According to the TAM website, pieces by Black artists only make up 1.76% of the museum’s 5000 art pieces. Therefore, the organization is working to critically engage with and remedy this inequality; this collection is one of the ways it is doing so. While I liked the collection as a whole, I especially enjoyed the following three pieces by Black artists, all of whom produced work in either the 19th or 20th century. And to flex my writing muscles, I thought it would be fun to create mini-reviews—each approximately 250 words—of the paintings I admired. (Because I am kinda scared of copyright infringement, I haven’t provided pictures of the art pieces I’ve reviewed. Instead, I’d encourage you to click on the links to see each one for yourself.)
By Anya Shukla The two minute and 29-second video starts in the dark. “Other people don’t have to remember to forget,” the voiceover half-whispers in Spanish. Noses and ears bloom in and out of sight as the camera, focusing and unfocusing like a dilated eye, circles several people. The speaker continues: “Check their pockets for everything they need to bring out: money, keys, ID, and a strategy to present themselves.” The video’s subjects stay stock-still, the lack of light and strange camerawork obscuring their faces. They stand like statues: static, with unnerving immobility. “The movie started without me, and around me.” An elegant, multifaceted piece, Rodrigo Valenzuela’s "Tertiary" explores the role of people of color in cinema and television, art forms where racial minorities are often underrepresented. For example, according to a study by UCLA, only 18.7% of broadcast scripted leads went to people of color, while racial minorities make up 38.7% of the American population. "Tertiary" delves into the sociological and psychological impacts of this relegation of racial minorities to the background.
By Anya Shukla I’m Indian-American. But until recently, I had a preconception of Bollywood movies: they were filled with over-the-top acting, wacky plots, and overt green screen usage. Anathema to a Hollywood born-and-bred gal like me. Sriram Raghavan’s "Andhadhun" stands in stark contrast to my sugar-coated image of Indian cinema. "Andhadhun" evokes an unnerving feeling of suspense, perfectly encapsulated in one slow, eerie dolly shot of a maroon, poster-lined hallway. That sense of faint foreboding, coupled with the movie’s dramatic narrative, constantly keeps you on the edge of your seat. The plot is dense—a blind piano player witnesses two murders, then tries to catch the killers and also land the girl of his dreams and also move to London. But this film was made for Indian audiences: what Americans find over-the-top, is, in Bollywood, just right. And the storyline’s complexity doesn’t keep its twists and turns from being any less revelatory.
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