,” I recently rallied my three roommates together to indulge in what seemed like a worthy guilty pleasure.
My American roommates and I devoured it all, yet I couldn’t bring myself to laugh or roll my eyes at each cringe-worthy interaction as freely as they did. I began exclusively listening to Billboard’s Top 40 and befriending children of expats. It was easy to pretend I didn’t speak Cantonese to food stall owners who struggled to reply with broken English. Weekends were spent at SAT prep and math tutoring. Holding my acceptance package to USC, it wasn’t giddy triumph I felt, but relief. Finally, a brief reprieve from mounting desperation.
Although my path to the U.S. was a self-forged one, the dramas onscreen resonated with me so much that the show did not feel like entertainment, but a dirty revelation of my private struggles. This skepticism and uncomfortable scrutiny repeated itself with my current boyfriend’s relatives when we began dating two years ago. Ironically, on our first date, when I made him guess where I was from, he had confidently declared “L.A.,” referencing my “Valley Girl accent.” He, a half-white half-South-Asian man, was shocked to learn of my international upbringing and admitted he never would’ve guessed I wasn’t American.
Unfortunately, the popularity of the show makes me believe that the story America craves is exploitative, where immigration is portrayed as a cynical joke.