Brown Girls On Film: A Conversation With The Writers Of Farah Goes Bang

Very few films and TV shows I saw represented otherwise, so I turned to shows like A Different World or The Fresh Prince Of Bel-Air. I think both of those shows made incredibly necessary steps that led us to where we are now, which is why I also don’t necessarily hate on 90s constructions of diversity. My sense of self would have been very different if the landscape that exists now existed then and, in that way, I think our film is a natural product of a change that has been ongoing for the past ten years. Fresh Prince is a great example, actually. Race was dealt with very nominally on that show—and when it was, it was poignant – but shows like Fresh Prince were doing something perhaps even more challenging:  integrating the black experience into a total American experience , with all of the pratfalls and heartache of the highly developed upper-middle-class narrative of the 90s (a decade that started, mind you, with Rodney King).

So for every reason that is obvious and I could go on about, the narratives I seek are making up for something my brown face crowded in a sea of white needed to see–that being Indian was not going to be the definitive and controlling point of difference in my life, but rather, would turn out to be a deep and rich part of a total experience that engaged with all facets of an American life. And that the world was already in the process of changing to accommodate that. I would actually be interested, Laura, in hearing more about where your stake in this sort of representation comes from and how that voice was a part of creating the film. You wrote an article about your novel Sister Mischief, “A Skin Not Your Own,” about the complexities of writing outside your own experience, and I’d be interested in hearing more about that perspective as it relates to this project.

Laura: I think constantly about what my stake in this sort of representation is, and as a white person, it’s obviously a complex one. To put it bluntly, my stake in this is that I think too much of white America has forgotten or been willing to forget: that all of my community’s (if I even have a community, the complications of which are a conversation unto themselves) fathers and grandfathers came here on boats and planes just like yours did and that immigration is the single most central aspect of the American experience. So much is forgotten in just one generation: both of my parents are first-generation children of immigrant families, but they would never call themselves that. So in a sense, my stake in all this is rooted in an anger that more white people aren’t staked in it, a frustration with the brevity of our collective memory.

As I wrote in “A Skin Not Your Own,” my stake in this is also a desire to move past white guilt as the endpoint of white perspectives on race relations. White guilt angers me because it’s so passive and insufficient: it’s a statement of what we’ve failed to do, rather than an advancement of what we do. I think there’s a massive misconception in white America that it’s somehow the job of people of color to educate us about non-white experiences. I value so much what you’ve been generous enough to share with me about your personal and cultural history, Meera, but I regard that as a gift you’ve given me, not a debt you owe me. Making this film with you is a statement of what I do to make a stand against white privilege, and I’m committed to it.

Also, I think that my stake in this relates in a bottom-line way to just wanting to make great American movies. Great storytelling blends experiences, incites combustion between people, dares to raise questions outside our comfort zones. Filmmaking by definition is an ensemble endeavor, and I think it’s tremendously lazy–even irresponsible–to create monochromatic ensembles. My own American history is inextricably linked to yours, period, and it’s my responsibility as a storyteller to examine that intersection thoughtfully. Meera, you write so beautifully about what Fresh Prince and Cosby and the concept of being an ABCD meant to you growing up, and I agree that the 90s are far too critical to be dismissed in this discussion. In addition to what you state about what shows and films like these have meant to you personally, what do you think their capacity is to build bridges between disparate experiences? How do you think the story of Farah Goes Bang seeks to build bridges?

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