We Are All Entrapta

If there is one accusation that the allistic world likes to inflict on people like me, it is the idea that we do not care. Our norms flout theirs, our preferences are alien to them, our interests do not align with theirs, our emotions do not work like theirs, and to each of these, they levy their curse: you don’t care. They fling a tiresome welter of robot and reptile and cold and computer and alien at our feet, each a stiletto aimed at the part of us that is willing to believe them. Their only idea for who and what we are denies our humanity.

When I see the same accusation leveled at one of the most impressively competent and compassionate portrayals of our neurology in popular media, Princess Entrapta from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, my irritation turns to icy resolve.

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We Are All Entrapta

The Strange Potential of Sharktopus

Something peculiar happens with film budgets. Films that spend more on their cast than small countries spend on food make decisions premised on that kind of money. In a culture that places whiteness, maleness, and similar statuses on pedestals and holds others down, that often means that seeking the biggest names—the people most often recognized for their talent and expertise—means finding people who have had every advantage up to that point. Big-budget films are incredibly white and distressingly male, by and large, regardless of where they are set, and it’s only recently that films could give top billing to members of ethnic minorities without immediately becoming “niche.”

That’s what makes lower-budget films especially interesting.

One of the first things I noticed when I started watching classmates’ film projects, amateur movies on YouTube, and other low-budget cinema was the overwhelmingly greater diversity in the cast. Women and non-white people, disappeared from sight in mainstream films, appeared in profusion, matching the reality of the diverse places I have lived.

And that’s what brings us to Sharktopus (2010).

Spoilers for all three Sharktopus films below the fold.

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The Strange Potential of Sharktopus

The Speedy

Every Hispanic person in the English-speaking world gets this question. One and all, we must all eventually confront…Speedy Gonzales.

Speedy Gonzales, the fleet-footed cartoon mouse with an outrageous Mexican accent and ethnic costume who spends his time outsmarting and outrunning various cartoon gringos and peninsulares in the service of his large family.

Speedy Gonzales, that bit of Latin America amidst the classic Americana of Loony Tunes that brought at least a little of Mexico’s rich culture to American attention, however flawed.

Speedy Gonzales, who predates the rest of the classic still-relevant Hispanic cartoon characters on Anglophone media by decades and was, for eons, our only representation in the medium.

Speedy Gonzales, who made sure that every single frigging time someone learns my last name, I hear catch phrases.

Thanks to that fifty-year-old cartoon mouse, being a GonzaleZ in the English-speaking world means hearing way too many “¡Ándale arriba!”s thrown your way and no one ever spelling your surname correctly even though it’s the original Spanish spelling minus the Anglo-confusing accent mark.

I kind of resent the little guy for that, if nothing else.  But the rest of my feelings about the Speedy aren’t quite that simple.

Cartoon Network ceased broadcasting Speedy Gonzales in 1999, citing concerns that the segments were racist.  After all, that accent is so heroically overwrought that Chris Tucker couldn’t do an impression of it.  Speedy’s costume is arguably not even Mexican (that’s a San Fermín festival kerchief, from Spain), making his Mexican-ness clueless as well as ham-fisted.  The majority of the other Mexican characters aren’t any better, either.  Where some are fairly well-done depictions not at all out of place in Revolution-era Mexico, the rest are all always wearing the same filthy outfit complete with a sombrero no matter what time of day it is.  And they spend almost all of their time smoking, getting drunk from clay bottles, and dancing to Mexican music.  Speedy’s brother Slow Rodriguez shoots someone in the face for antagonizing him.  This nonsense comes from higher up in the same well of racism that gave us Bugs Bunny’s blackface hunter, and needs to be acknowledged if we are to be critical consumers of popular culture.

But the thing is, Speedy is the hero.  He spends all of his time tricking equally outrageous caricatures of white Americans and wealthy Mexican landowners into dynamiting themselves, and he does it all for the love of his friends and family.  He’s determined, snarky, inventive, and virtually fearless.  And he almost always wins.  Is it any wonder that Mexicans in particular are awash with affection for Speedy Gonzales, who gives Americans who think they’re all lazy poncho-clad alcoholics and bandits their comeuppance?  Is it a surprise that Speedy Gonzales has become a cartoon role model, held as a dependable and capable heroic ideal by thousands of Latino families?

He even sings Cielito lindo correctly.  Not a garbled mishmash of Spanish-sounding syllables designed to sound familiar to Anglophone ears—he sings the actual words, in all their cloying sweetness.

If anything, Speedy Gonzales is a potent, almost tragically unsubtle commentary about class relations in Latin America.  It’s an even more powerful escapist fantasy of a scrappy Latino showing some overly entitled gringos what’s what.

And when you’re from a lineage that still gets on Anglophone TV primarily when the writer needs a drug runner or an abusive husband or a cuckold or a dark-haired beauty to bring sympathy to a street gang, it doesn’t matter that Speedy Gonzales is from elsewhere in Latin America, at home in a desert you’ve never seen, singing Cielito lindo instead of Guantanamera—you hang on to that.
The Speedy