I took my father to see Rogue One today. I’ve wanted to take him for a while. I wanted my Mexican father, with his thick Mexican accent, to experience what it was like to see a hero in a blockbuster film, speak the way he does. And although I wasn’t sure if it was going to resonate with him, I took him anyway. When Diego Luna’s character came on screen and started speaking, my dad nudged me and said, “he has a heavy accent.” I was like, “Yup.” When the film was over and we were walking to the car, he turns to me and says, “did you notice that he had an accent?” And I said, “Yeah dad, just like yours.” Then my dad asked me if the film had made a lot of money. I told him it was the second highest grossing film of 2016 despite it only being out for 18 days in 2016 (since new year just came around). He then asked me if people liked the film, I told him that it had a huge following online and great reviews. He then asked me why Diego Luna hadn’t changed his accent and I told him that Diego has openly talked about keeping his accent and how proud he is of it. And my dad was silent for a while and then he said, “And he was a main character.” And I said, “He was.” And my dad was so happy. As we drove home he started telling me about other Mexican actors that he thinks should be in movies in America. Representation matters.
“I have seen her. Walking across the courtyard from her first class this morning, her expression thoughtful, her book bag casually thrown over her shoulder. I had seen photographs, of course; I knew she wore clunky glasses and her hair in a youthful dreadlock style, that her clothes would be dynamic and colorful. I knew she would be 1.63 meters tall, that she would weigh 50kg, that she was coming away from a neurobiology class; I knew what to expect…But I was not prepared for her insouciant manner, the way she squinted and smiled up at the gathering rainclouds, aware of the gray weather in a way that the other students missed, immersed in their phones or conversations. I did not think she would kick at a pile of leaves. She walks loosely, comfortable in her skin, her face as open and expressive as Ms Hendrix’s is closed.” - from the diary of Dr. Delphine Cormier.