The Things That Trigger Us
Every time someone bothers me so much that I question my own vitriol, I ask: Where’s the acidity coming from? Because there’s no way one dislikes someone that intensely for no reason, unless you’re projecting something you see, or fear you’ll see, in yourself.
I’ve never been a fan of Ariana Grande. From the internet’s “Blackiana” era to “Ari-San,” and now the soft childlike Glinda voice with its clipped innocence; her whole aura always irked me. And I’m still unpacking why. She’s talented. She can sing like a Mariah Carey allergic to consonants, and thank u, next was sugar-sweet fun. My problem isn’t her pop; it’s my favorite thing about her. So why the deep revulsion? Not-so-shallow reasons.
I’ve dissected why. And ultimately, it’s not about her:
1. Weaponized innocence.
What Carl Jung might call the innocent trickster.
I have an aversion (and a fear) of performatism. Maybe because I fear being mistaken for it. When I was young, the “smart” kids dismissed me for not presenting smart enough. I dressed up for school. I cared about aesthetics. I didn’t want to hang out in the hallway in sweats, but I was a nerd with obsessions (still am!) and proud of it. I read. A lot.
One day, a very bright Asian girl I admired for her authenticity confided her family troubles to me in the HS bathroom. Mid-conversation, she paused and said, “I always thought you were shallow. I didn’t know you were smart. Or deep.”
She meant it as a compliment, but it shook me.
Girls learn soon enough the world categorizes you on presentation: intellect, beauty, obedience, mystery. Slotting yourself in all four is greedy and damn unrealistic.
I’d spent years in limbo proving to white classmates as “not just a nerdy Asian” and to Asians classmates as “someone who doesn’t want to be white,” when I didn’t have who I was figured out just yet. But I wanted to just be my own, as I was. As a girl on TikTok once wisely said: I want to consume, not be consumed. I felt that.
So what does the that to do with Ariana? I was hurt by being misread as “surface.” She is rewarded for performing that surface deliberately. My subconscious says: “She’s making art out of what hurt me.” It gives me existential pause.
2. The shadow of purity.
I’m fascinated by history. My own family’s and everyone else’s. I like to know what caused why and lead to who behaving how. But lineage, culture and rootedness is so important. So when someone slips into AAVE one day and cosplays an Asian pop star by drawing her eyes into monolids the next, flexing shapeshifting without foundational heritage, I flinch. I prize earned depth so I get anxiety over dilution (and disrespect). And when someone is praised for farce, I reject them and the praise. I judge the praiser.
That’s rough. Because the praiser has their own reasons for reacting positively. Maybe Ari makes them feel seen in other ways. I’m sure she does. Crazy thing about life is multiple things can be true. But back to my personal reasons.
3. Authentic power vs. infantilization.
The “little girl who disarms men” voice clashes with my inner animus—the one who wants women to stand in power through gravity and voice. It stirs memories of being told I was too young, too soft (especially as an Asian woman) to be taken seriously. Of learning to play dumb to survive. Part of me still resents having to soften. And she asks constantly—must this be the price we pay to be listened to? Why perpetuate falseness? Why do we subdue?
4. Whiteness and the mirage of I’m so baby.
On a collective level, she’s using white innocence as social camouflage. My psyche is hypersensitive to that. I’m always calibrating moral intuition.
This ladders back to point 1, but I recently watched the Jayne Mansfield documentary by her daughter Mariska Hargitay. She talks about her mother’s fake baby voice, then plays footage of her real one: lower, richer, desperate and sad—startlingly human. I remember watching Jayne’s movies and going on a mad hunt for footage of her real voice because I just couldn’t buy that the baby voice was real. And I found the clip years ago. It was the same one in Mariska’s documentary. Seeing it was validating. But no less sad.
I pride myself on sensing falseness fast. Pride is a word that can feel heavy. And frankly, that vigilance of knowing is exhausting. Constantly clocking hypocrisy leaves me hypersensitive to my own necessary masks. So in judging her, I’m judging myself. (And still, I never faulted Marilyn Monroe for hers. Because she wasn’t ignorant. She purposely performed innocence while mourning her loss of it since she was a child. I sense truth in her sacrifice. I feel for her childhood. So I feel for her.)
Ultimately, I’m not anti-performance. I’m anti-denial. A performance, when confessed, can be art; when unalchemized, it is manipulation. Charm without soul isn’t charming.
And maybe denial itself is just another defense. A glamorous version of fear. But hating someone is exhausting. So if I can’t control it, I dissolve it. Break it down until it’s dust, swept away by a soft exhale.
You know that saying, forgiveness is the scent a flower leaves after it’s been stepped on? Releasing a grudge against a stranger is like unclenching your jaw after a bad dream. Only you can feel it, but you breathe easier all the same.
Caravaggio’s The Fortune Teller
A young man extends his hand to a beautiful Roma woman. He’s performing charm; she’s performing seduction while gently sliding his ring off his finger. Caravaggio paints the exact moment of deception, a quiet departure from the moralizing art of his time.
It’s a study in the seduction of falseness: charm, denial, self-delusion.
Caravaggio said nature itself provided all he needed; there was no greater teacher than looking at life directly.
If you can look at it directly.
