by Anna Akana
Hold up.
Why?
My manager had no idea. He said it came out of nowhere. Was I sure that the meeting had gone well? Yes, I was absolutely sure. They’d expressed so much delight that I was going to work with them. We’d even talked about the role at length, and what we each loved about the character and the movie. We’d left shaking hands, smiling, and excited for production.
Finally, I asked, very softly, very tentatively, “Is it because I’m Asian?”
My manager was quiet on the other line. After a moment, he said, full of confusion, “Honestly…I thought that too. What else could it be?”
We got off the phone. He promised to call me when he had more information. I cried. I was Asian when I auditioned. I was Asian when I went into callbacks. I was Asian when I was in the room talking to them, shaking their hands, looking at their faces. I still am Asian. I’m always going to be Asian.
Why would they give me the role and then take it away? Could it really be for something as simple as the color of my skin?
My manager and I decided to pass on the best friend role. Repeat came back and asked that I take it. They’d cast the lead with a star; surely I could understand. Yes, she was Caucasian, but she was an experienced actor with a brand name. Although I can’t argue with the logic of casting a bigger star to sell your movie, I still felt bitter that the role I had initially been offered ultimately went to a white actress.
Eventually, after a lot of negotiating and talking to the director (who I loved and really wanted to work with), I decided to take on the best friend role. Two weeks before we were supposed to start filming, our Star Name walked away from the project. It fell apart. The director tried to pitch me as the lead so the production could go on—after all, they had given it to me once before—but the company couldn’t be convinced. The project died.
This whole experience scared me. Before this point, I had always assumed that the role went to the most talented actor. When I saw white actors being cast in shows I’d auditioned for, I’d shrug it off, assuming the girl was a better actress than me and she’d won the role fair and square. I would audition for parts that were specifically written as Asian in the script, and even those roles would end up going to white actors. I figured she probably brought that character to life in ways that no one else did. She probably WAS that character.
I’ve been in casting rooms before. I know what it’s like to find someone who just IS that person or has that look. I wanted to give casting directors and producers the benefit of the doubt. Surely you wouldn’t cast someone just because of their race.
And don’t get me wrong. Token roles are just as bad as no roles. I’ve gone out for more hypersexualized Asian women and geeky best friends than I’d like.
But there comes a time when every person of color in the entertainment industry has to ask themselves: Is my race going to limit my career?
There are parts I will never be able to play. I will never, for example, star in a period piece set in the Victorian era. I want to dress up in one of those petticoats, dammit. Have you ever seen one on an Asian? No! And if we ever were to be cast in one of those movies, we’d probably play a servant or a railroad worker or a sex geisha or a mail-order bride or something.
Now I look at the casts of TV shows and movies and I take note when there’s not a single person of color onscreen. I look at stereotypical, two-dimensional characters onscreen with resentment and rage.
I obsess over the projects Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer and Amy Poehler are in…and then I feel a twinge of sadness. Where’s the Asian one? Where’s the Indian one? Where’s the Latin one? Why are all the It girls white girls?
Sometimes I wish that I was white so badly and so earnestly that I cry. I obsess over the fact that I never have the same opportunities to do juicy roles like Brie Larson in Room or JLaw in Winter’s Bone. I’m saddened by the fact that I always imagine white people as the characters in the stories I read, unless a specific race is stated in the text or revealed in the name. I’m depressed by the fact that the only role models I had growing up were Lucy Liu and Mulan, and both were best known for their martial arts skills.
I’ve been forced to confront the very real, very scary possibility that maybe, just maybe, the way I look is going to get in the way of—and limit—what I want to do. And that’s a horrible fucking feeling. That’s a damaging, insane thought. The idea that there is a ceiling, a barrier, or a wall in the form of the color of my skin fills me with such unspeakable anger that I don’t know what to do with myself.
Then there are moments where you have to say no to roles because of your race. I booked a guest star spot on a TV show and ended up turning it down. My agent was pissed. I understood—she has to protect her relationships. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d gotten the audition while I was in New York. I should have read the material before confirming my attendance, but my agent loved the show and I trusted her opinion. We hadn’t been working together for very long at this point, so it was definitely my fault for not warning her about my boundaries. I don’t do anything I can’t show Dad; that’s my rule. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll totally do a sex scene with Chris Pratt, but in that case my dad would be the one walking out of the theater. I’d proudly sit with him at the screening, shouting, “DAD! LOOK! THAT’S CHRIS PRATT! OMG!” It’s his choice whether or not to actually watch it.
I was on the way to the audition, reading the sides, when I had a horrible realization. The guest star role was for a stereotypical hypersexualized Japanese girl. In the first scene, all I’m doing is making out with one of the douchey guys. In the second scene, I’m basically giving him a hand job offscreen, but not discreetly. I hated the material instantly, but I knew it was too late to back out. Besides, I love auditioning. And I particularly love auditioning when I don’t care about the role. Those auditions are always the most fun, but they are also the most dangerous because you are likely to book the role. When you don’t care, you’re loose and in the moment and do your best work. You’re not trying so hard to be perfect. You let the magic happen.
I went in and did the role. I nailed it. I went big and silly, and because I didn’t care, I was relaxed and funny. The casting director and associate loved me. They tentatively asked if I’d do a Japanese accent as well, just in case the role called for it, and I thought, Here we go. Since I spent four years overseas in Japan attending public school and learning the language, my accent was spot on. One of the characters I had crafted and performed in my improv group at Groundlings was Michiko, an earnest and enthusiastic foreign exchange student. She’s a crowd-pleaser.
Actors like Aziz Ansari refuse to do accents. That’s cool, that’s their call, and I respect them for it. Why can’t the person just be American? Why do they need an accent? I hear you, dude. Most of the accent-riddled characters on TV aren’t even characters. They’re stereotypes. They’re cartoons.
I have a different attitude. It’s not better, just different. Why do you have to hide a very important part of who you are because of how other people are going to see you? Does having an accent make you stupid or ignorant? No. Acting stupid or ignorant WITH an accent is offensive. Trying to be funny just because you HAVE an accent is offensive. A character with an accent is just…a character with an accent. An accent is like a piece of wardrobe. It’s supposed to accentuate the character, not be the entire thing.
I’ve encountered a lot of comedians who won’t joke about race. Some of them say, “I’ll never do jokes about my race. It’s cheap. And I don’t want to become that comic who jokes about their ethnicity.”
I love jokes about race. I think there’s a tactful way to do them. I may not always hit a home run with them, but as with any category of joke—dating, sex, friendships, family, relationships—you’re either relying on clichés or you’re rising above them.
With all that said, my Japanese accent kills. Michiko is the character I use whenever someone wants an accent. She’s a person I can play with the accent.
She’s confident, fun, and engaging, and I’ve often used her in my videos when delivering sponsored messages, because she’s loud and jovial.
So I did the accent. I didn’t care. I played the hypersexualized hand-job-giving bartender in this audition and made her the best version of Michiko possible.
I booked the role. Of course.
I read the full script, and she had two other scenes in the episode. After the make-out and hand-job scenes, she reappears and lowers out of frame to give the guy a blow job. Raising the stakes! Heightening! Wowee, didn’t see that coming. In her last scene, she shows up at the guy’s house to move in. Because now that she’s fulfilled her sex goddess duties to a man she’s known for twenty-four hours, she has to complete the “crazy bitch” stereotype and assume that they are now in love.
I turned down the role.
As I said, my agent was disappointed. She likes the show, and she didn’t want to jeopardize her relationship to the casting agency. But I don’t regret my decision. I know I would’ve had fun on set, and I know that I would have been funny. But I couldn’t in good conscience perpetuate a stereotype that I actively fight against. I didn’t want to take that job and compromise my integrity.
Now, I totally understand when people have to take those jobs. After all, the first movie gig I ever booked was a scene where I was being taught how to drive by a racist. The entire movie was riddled with horrible race jokes (written by white people) and perpetuated harmful stereotypes. But when I booked it, I took the job. It paid my rent for a month, and I don’t regret it. Now that I have the luxury of choice, I can be more mindful of what roles I want to take part in. Not everyone has that opportunity, and I get that.
Will the color of my skin affect my career? Yes, of course it will. I can’t deny that now. The whitewashing of Asian roles in entertainment (Emma Stone in Aloha, Scarlett Johansson in Ghost in the Shell, Tilda Swinton as the Ancient One in Doctor Strange) speaks volumes. But that only furthers my desire to inspire other Asian Americans to pursue their dreams in the creative industry, make conscious diverse choices in my own projects, and be a voice that stands up for my community.
I’m proud to be an Asian American woman. So much of who I am comes from the color of my skin: my values, my work ethic, my point of view. I don’t know who I’d be without those things.
I used to tell myself that I would succeed despite my race. Now I know I’ll succeed because of it.
It’s Okay to Want to Be Beautiful as Long as It’s Your Definition of Beauty
I grew up a tomboy with a strong aversion to makeup. I resisted learning how to apply makeup until I became an actor, and by then it was too late. The learning curve on that art form is steep. The number of products and steps is overwhelming. I’ve watched a million makeup tutorials, purchasing products and following guidelines, only to find out I’m not even using the right color foundation for my face. It took me six years and endless research to master the cat eye, which is why I have it in every photo. I say it’s my signature look, but in all honesty, I just can’t do anything else.
When you live in Los Angeles, you’re surrounded by the most beautiful people in the world. I’ve worked on sets with eighteen-year-olds who are tall goddesses with big breasts and perky butts. I’ll look up at their perfect faces and wistfully wonder why puberty is a cruel god who did nothing for me. I’m in my late twenties still playing flat-chested teenagers on TV. I’ve spent hours on celebrity gossip sites about stars who’ve had plastic surgery, looking for reassurance that no one could look that good naturally.
I used to get depressed about the way I looked. I’d see the leading ladies of the world and know that I would never look like them. I’d stalk celebrity Instagram accounts and try my best to mimic their style or makeup. But this only served to make me more unhappy because I didn’t feel like myself. I felt like a hand-me-down version of someone else.
The pressure to be beautiful is enormous. Not only in the entertainment industry, but for all women. We’re supposed to be beautiful, but we’re not supposed to try too hard to look beautiful, or appreciate our own beauty, or we risk being called vain or shallow. It’s impossible. You can’t win. Either you’re wearing too much makeup or you’re not wearing enough. Either your outfit is trying too hard or you didn’t even bother to try.
As someone who has been forced to edit my own videos, watch my stand-up performances, and sit through movies or TV shows I’m in to review my performance, I can honestly tell you: I know every flaw on my face. I know that my nostrils are different sizes and I have an upturned nose. The left side of my face is stronger than my right, so my smiles are often crooked. My upper lip muscle, for some reason, is so strong that it curls my lip inward when I’m smiling genuinely, showing off all my gums. My eyebrows are distant cousins. I have to consciously hold my eyes open to make them “look alive” on camera (a note I’ve received often from directors and publicists).
But I know what my best features are too: My skin is flawless. My cheekbones are high, and every makeup artist I’ve sat in front of compliments my bone structure. I can make almost any hair length and hairline part work. Bangs or no bangs, I’m solid.
In 2014, I made a video called How to Put On Your Face. It was a satirical makeup tutorial that focused on inner beauty. As I put on eye shadow, I talked about viewing the world with optimism. I’d apply my lipstick and remind viewers to speak kindly. I’d had the idea for a long time, but I’d always thought it was dumb. But then I had a week where I was feeling particularly depressed about my appearance and I decided to just do it. I wanted to reinforce the idea that the inside matters as much as the outside, and somehow making a video with a lesson always helps me stick to my guns. There’s a pressure to practice what you preach. And I didn’t want to be a hypocrite—I wanted to follow my own example.
How to Put On Your Face went viral. It got picked up by the Huffington Post and Upworthy, and at nearly four million views, it’s my most-viewed video to date. It reached people. It spoke to women everywhere who were just as tired of hating their faces as I was. Women are taught to place so much value on the way they look. We tell young girls that they look cute or pretty instead of telling them they’re funny and smart. And pretty privilege is real. On days when I dressed up at my waitressing gig, I would receive twice the amount of tips as on the days when I didn’t. Beautiful people are given more attention, more leniency, more compliments, more everything. With the whole world judging the way a woman looks, it’s no wonder we judge ourselves just as harshly.
A few years ago, there was a huge controversy online about whether or not makeup guru Michelle Phan had gotten a chin implant. From looking at photos, it was obvious that something had been done. Though Michelle got some push back from fans who were angry about these enhancements, I thought she looked good. Her chin had always been her weakest feature (something she said, not me) and I’m sure it gave her quite a bit of anxiety. Being in the public eye means everyone and anyone feels that they have the right to comment on your appearance. Women are particularly prone to criticism of their face and body. And trust me: the constant criticism gets to you. Especially if you agree with it.
Seeing the backlash Michelle (and many other women) received for getting cosmetic enhancements and given the success of How to Put On Your Face, I was nervous about going there. But another part of me was curious. I’d wanted lip fillers long before the Kylie Jenner trend started. I hated how my top lip curled inward when I smiled. I’m sure no one else notices it, but it bothered me. It made me feel self-conscious every time I laughed or smiled. I kept trying to control it in photos or on camera, which would look strange and forced.
So finally I said, fuck it. I’m gonna try it. There’s a lot of shame and stigma surrounding the idea of cosmetic enhancements, but ultimately I’m not ashamed of my decision because I did it for me. I love it. It’s subtle, and only a few people have even asked me about it. My friends and family say it’s not even noticeable. But when I smile,
I have 50 percent less top gum showing. For me, that’s success. I can laugh freely without covering up my mouth with my hand or actively trying to keep my lip down. I’m no longer wasting time with facial exercises to strengthen my lip muscles. I no longer feel insecure.
More important, I feel more beautiful. And that’s okay. It’s okay to want to feel beautiful, as long as it’s your definition of beauty. I want to look my best so I can feel my best.
I want to be clear: I’m not saying lip fillers or plastic surgery is something everyone should get. I’m not saying give in to your every insecurity. I thought long and hard about whether or not it was something I wanted to do, if I was doing it for the right reasons, and if it was worth the money (it’s a lot of money for just a slightly better smile). I did it for the same reason I got braces. The same reason I use moisturizer every night. I want to take care of myself to the best of my ability, inside and out. Will I ever do it again? Probably not. Five hundred dollars is a lot of money to pay for a slightly better smile. But I’m glad I tried it. There’s no harm in figuring out what makes you feel best.
The best beauty advice I ever got was “Enhance your strengths. Tweak the weaknesses.” Beauty isn’t about trying to look like someone else—the new It girl or the model who is having her turn in the spotlight. Beauty is not about conforming. It’s about making yourself feel good and confident, and there’s nothing wrong with that. People will judge us no matter what—if we get plastic surgery, if we’re too skinny or too fat, if we wear too much makeup or not enough. It’s important to figure out what matters to you and make choices that will make YOU feel good. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but the only beholder that matters is you.
You Can’t Treat an Emotional Problem Physically
I’ve been stick thin for most of my life. Before I started doing aerial arts and weight training and gaining muscle, friends and family would ask me with genuine concern if I had an eating disorder. I heard it all: eat a sandwich, put some meat on your bones, guys like girls they can grab, and on and on. It took me a long time to admit that maybe my relationship to food wasn’t healthy, but not for the reasons people thought.