Rippling in headlines all throughout the month of August, the movie Crazy Rich Asians was absolutely groundbreaking. Telling the tale of a Chinese-American woman, Rachel Chu, whose trip to Singapore with her boyfriend, Nick Young to visit his rich family and attend a wedding, proves more complicated than originally anticipated. She is excited to visit Asia for the first time, but will soon realize that not only is his family rich, but one of the most famed and sought after. Faced with a relentlessly disapproving mother, the pursuit for love is crazy, but not crazier than family. Based on the best selling book of the same name, written by Kevin Kwan, the news of the movie itself was met with lots of critical reception. Being the first major motion picture with an all Asian cast and Asian-American leads since 1993's The Joy Luck Club, the film had a lot of demand, and with my own hopes attached that strong success would bring a new and more accepting media landscape. It was a chance to showcase the many complex and rich elements of Asian culture, and if it could be done well, through characters that were developed on their own, a chance to see characters not stereotyped as shy, meek, uncool, or nerdy, it would be a true milestone for the representation of all.

Settling in my seat, thoughts to myself, the stunningly beautiful opening shots blew me away, quite literally. The cast, hailing from all areas of Asia with a multitude of different backgrounds, the graceful and expertly executed menacing disapproval from Michelle Yeoh’s Auntie Eleanor, the young couples in the audience reeling from fresh recollections of meetings with the in-laws, her subtle Malaysian accent cutting with Constance Wu’s Rachel Chu, a sharply American, Virginian tongue, recognizable from her role as Jessica Huang in ABC’s comedy Fresh Off the Boat, dashed with a hint of sweetness from Henry Golding’s Nick Young, perfectly sophisticated, with his British intonations in his feature film debut. I truly identified with so many of them, finally being able to with someone who looked like me, on the big screen. Flamboyant, glorious, and downright ridiculous characters were given a cinematic world of their own, created in sprawling Singapore. Little special moments in Mandarin Chinese I was able to detect and savor, just little hints at the exploration of identity and culture perfected in the film. I admittedly cried, laughed and smiled uncontrollably, and left a different person. A particular scene rang true to me, featuring Nick, who was teaching Rachel how to make dumplings with his family. The presence of food in all Asian households brought people together, my own memories of dumpling making with my family came up quite a bit.

Conversations going on hours without end, gossip about who was going to what college, the latest Chinese drama show, or Grandma’s world renowned cooking techniques. Who could make better dim sum? Weeks later, I was notified of a string of tweets that were going viral written by a HuffPost journalist named Kimberly Yam. She outlined her experiences growing up and the cumulative effects of her Asian American upbringing, reflecting on her life as a third grader, facing criticism for her foreign lunch food, as a teenager, made fun of for her appearance, and lastly twenty five year old, finally embracing her Chinese heritage.

Memories of my own withdrawn 1st grade self, quiet and shy, came back to me. Sitting at a lunch table, clammy and sticky from the previous herd of children, traces of bread crumbs and sticky apple juice residue were left behind. Around me 5 or 6 other girls, who I desperately wanted to befriend, opened up their lunchboxes to reveal highlighter-pink Post-It notes with a messy “Have a great day!” sprawled across. Clad in ruffly tulle shirts and skirts, intricately woven pigtail braids in bright, barrette-clipped hair, and feet laced up tight with Sketchers Light-Up sneakers, those whiny morning requests were fulfilled by their tired mothers, their eyes revealing so much more than a bake sale and PTA meeting at 5:15. Drawing a hurried breath, they were a force to be reckoned with, the pinnacle of cool, the status which I was striving to achieve. What was more enviable than having matching, glow in the dark bracelets? That previous weekend, my mom and I had made dumplings, notable among her beautiful handiwork, my crudely flattened creations, in which I was ecstatic to find 4 of, nestled peacefully in a small tupperware container, wrapped with Bounty paper towels. I lifted the lid to find the delicately creased skin of the dumplings, thinly rolled out from nubs of dough, crimped at the top to enclose a dollop of filling. Quickly dropped into a pool of boiling water, they nose-dived straight in, and floated with enviable carefreeness, gently plucked out with the help of a metal skimmer, the family staple. Going through quite the transformation, the dumplings formed soft wrinkles and folds, warping themselves into characters with disapproving frowns, staring intently at me, as I reached into my lunchbox to grab my favorite pair of chopsticks.

Comforting aromas of chives and cabbage billowed towards my face, as I smudged the fat water droplets that had congregated on the snap-on lid. Jeering remarks and retorting glances came at me like bullets, as the other girls proceeded to snicker, and slowly inch away from me, all the more painful. “That is so weird!” “What is that?” “Why don’t you just bring normal food?,” I quickly slammed the lid back on the tupperware and shoved it into the walls of my Hello Kitty lunchbox where it would stay for the rest of the day. Peering into a swirling mixture of soy sauce and sesame oil, a reflection of shame and sadness was bound on my face. Quietly sipping from my water bottle, I was a normal first grader on the verge of tears, who swore to herself that she would never be seen with foreign food again. Their wrinkly, little frowns began to disappear, soon replaced by spongy pieces of white bread, halfheartedly plastered together with peanut butter and artificial purple jelly.

American society is defined by media, and whether or not that media is good, the lurking presence of it is inescapable. Exposure to the real people and cultures represented in the Hollywood eye often leads to an understanding of the comedic and fictional character, so heavily portrayed in the media. An experience well engraved into the minds of many young Asian-Americans, we would mockingly be asked by our peers whether we were Japanese or Chinese, then by taking their hands, placing it up to their eyes, and stretching them out, crudely portraying our "small squinty eyes", the monolid, and snap their heads every which way. While the movie did have its shortcomings, it served as a very strong start, a victory for diversity, and the setup for change.

Maybe it was the cinematography, the unparalleled aerial shots of Singapore, the hilarious quirks of Peik Lin, the gracefully supportive friend we all wish we had, the disapproving stares of Mrs. Young, or the stunning soundtrack, framing the beautiful faces of change, capturing Asian culture from all over the world. It was the beginning of a movement in mainstream media. Leaving the theater, I knew that being Asian American was more than just a meaningless fill-in-the-bubble title, something that I had been so used to diminishing, something I was painfully shy of, afraid of. Seeing myself not just represented, but acknowledged, and understood was so unbelievably moving and bitter sweet. As Hollywood began to accept the presence of difference and the importance of diversity, I would begin to too. This movie allowed me to feel like I truly had a place and belonged, a universal message ringing true to so many viewers. Being Asian American was being me.