By Essa Rasheed
I can’t overstate just how big of a deal the film Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle was to teenagers in the early 2000’s. It stands firmly as a defining work of the cultural canon of Bush-era American media built around the sensibilities of teenage boys. Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle is the type of movie a teenage boy in the 2000’s would have rented from Blockbuster when their friends were sleeping over along with South Park: Bigger Longer Uncut and Jackass the Movie.
What drew me most to Harold and Kumar star Kal Penn’s autobiography, You Can’t Be Serious, was a gradual reevaluation of the Harold and Kumar series I’ve been experiencing over the past few years. The series, which stars Penn and Korean American actor John Cho, was genuinely remarkable in that it was a studio film prominent in the pop culture zeitgeist that nonchalantly had Asian leads. Discussions of minority representation were not nearly as embedded into media discourse as they are now, so it’s nothing less than groundbreaking that “Harold and Kumar” existed and the fact that it was taken for granted that the series had Asian American leads. There was an acceptance that this raunchy stoner comedy starred Penn and Cho in a way I wish the existence of Asian American leads in major Hollywood features were welcomed all the time.
The appeal of an autobiography, especially one about a person in the entertainment industry, is tied to personal interest in the author, and Penn is much more than just Kumar Patel – that can’t be stated enough. He’s proven himself as an excellent actor time and time again in both comedies and dramas, with roles as doctor Lawrence Kutner in House, Press secretary Seth Wright in Designated Survivor, and Gogol Ganguli in the Mira Nair directed film adaptation of Jumpa Lahiri’s novel The Namesake. Additionally, on top of his career in entertainment, Penn was the associate director of the Office of Public Engagement (OPE) for the Obama administration, where he worked as a liaison to community leaders and organizations, especially those representing Asian Americans, the arts community, and young people.
Penn states that a key motivator of his passion for acting was his love for storytelling, and that’s evident in his writing; there’s a mastery with which he balances narratives of sharp humor and emotional vulnerability. He writes with a warmth, wit, and affability that I’m certain everyone who’s ever written an autobiography wishes they had. Every anecdote feels as though you’re hearing it from a good friend over a couple of drinks. The stories of navigating a deeply racist industry and pursuing art without being jaded by the obstacles he faces are poignant, while stories about things like Penn’s eventful interaction with a stripper at a friend’s bachelor party or his awkward first date with his now fiance Josh are funny, playful, and endearing in a way that makes it hard to put the book down. To put it simply, the book is brilliantly written.
You Can’t Be Serious starts with Penn’s career from his introduction to the performing arts, and throughout it, he explores the tension of communicating and pursuing his dream of a career in the arts to his parents and extended family, who are Indian immigrants, and who took large risks to give their children a better life than their own. Asian American immigrants’ cultural apprehension of careers in the arts is something that weighs heavily on those who seek to pursue them. Generally every single Asian American artist I personally know has struggled with it in a way, whether their parents have been supportive of their career choices or not. And though it’s been mentioned by comedians like Hasan Minaj, Ronny Chieng, Jimmy O. Yang, and Ken Jeong, it’s not something I’ve seen talked about all too in depth in the media, and definitely not with the nuance and compassion with which Penn explores it. Penn talks about how frustrating an obstacle that cultural barrier to the arts is, but at the same time makes it clear that the expectations of the children of Asian immigrants to be in prestigious, well paying fields like engineering or medicine doesn’t come from a place of joylessness or cruelty but are rooted in the sacrifice and economic anxiety that persist in the realities of immigration. There’s an effort to understand and ultimately, I feel these discussions are really refreshing and important to have represented like this. I’m sure it’d prove useful for aspiring artists reconciling with these obstacles.
Most compelling about this book is just how the very concept of “Indian American actor” has changed throughout the course of Penn’s career. Throughout the autobiography, there’s an ever-present awareness and reflection of the cultural climate surrounding being Asian in entertainment. When Penn started in Hollywood, the only roles open to him seemed to be offensive stereotypes, and almost always being expected that he’d have to do a thick Indian accent. In a truly heartbreaking moment, one of the first career related anecdotes involved a talent manager mentioning that though Penn was undoubtedly talented enough to be picked up for representation, he was rejected because he’s Indian, and “[he] might play a cab driver once or twice, but it wouldn’t be worth [the manager’s] time and effort to represent someone who isn’t going to work regularly.” In another truly repugnant instance of racism he describes, the final round of auditions for his breakout role of Taj Mahal Badalandabad (yes that’s really the name of the character) in National Lampoon’s Van Wilder, he auditioned against a white person in brownface, which needless to say should never have happened because brownface is unacceptable. Though it’s absolutely painful to read the career lows Penn endured at the hands of a deeply racist industry, it’s important as these anecdotes paint not only Penn’s struggles to pursue his dreams but also the specifics of how the industry sees minorities and how that has changed. The atrocious way Penn was treated in the industry stand in contrast to the terrific achievements he had later on.
After he had established himself as an actor, he co- created Sunnyside, a show which follows several immigrants taking citizenship classes in the Sunnyside neighborhood of Queens. Penn also starred in and executive produced Sunnyside, and he describes the struggles of making it into what he says is one of the most diverse network sitcoms ever made. Sunnyside was written almost entirely by immigrants or the direct relatives of immigrants, and stars a cast of actors from a wide range of ethnicities. Penn’s description of the production of the show and the challenges he faced in making it are rich and insightful, and through them it’s apparent that Penn has used his platform and talent to give respect and opportunities for others in an industry that did not give respect or opportunity to him. All that of course makes it all the more heartbreaking that the show’s airing and marketing were riddled with seemingly prejudiced network meddling. Sunnyside was eventually canceled and replaced with a much whiter show that, despite performing worse in ratings, did not get canceled. The entire experience gives a gut wrenching portrayal of how, despite how much progress has been made, equality and representation in media is still an uphill struggle. Shows like Sunnyside would not be possible without breakthroughs in representation that Penn himself has directly contributed to, but more must be done to keep the next Sunnyside from being sidelined by the powers that be. All that is to say that Penn’s experiences bring an invaluable perspective to understanding issues of representation and racism in the entertainment industry, and anyone interested in those topics would benefit deeply from reading this.
Penn’s career goes far beyond his work in the arts. His recounting of his time in Public Service is a refreshing reflection of the optimism of the Obama era, and provides an immersive account of what it’s like to work in government. Beginning as a youth vote surrogate for the Obama campaign during the Iowa caucus, where he represented the campaign at high schools and university events, and culminating with him leaving his role on House to be an associate director of OPE, Penn’s experiences a picture of just how monumental the Obama administration was, and allows for a reflection of the political process and what it meant to be an outsider in that process. Much of the literature on the Obama administration is written in broad strokes, so it’s valuable to have an account that covers things that are important but so often overlooked, like the first ever Diwali celebration in the White House, and the administration’s defense of Sikh Americans Tejdeep Singh Rattan and Kamaljeet Singh Kalsi as they faced religious discrimination by the military for refusing to remove their turbans or shave their beards.
At the end of the day, an autobiography of an entertainer is a polarizing genre, with those who are interested in them often just reading those of entertainers who they deeply admire, but I would say Penn is an extraordinary artist who has had and continues to have a truly extraordinary career inside of entertainment and outside of it. To an entire generation of South Asians in the arts, he is the example of what is possible. He has broken barriers and created opportunities for disenfranchised voices, and this book covers all of that in a sharp, touching, and thoroughly enjoyable way. I would recommend this book to anyone, but especially people who have an interest in media representation or how depictions of Indian Americans have changed in recent history, and to minority artists who are navigating the cultural hurdles surrounding the pursuit of the arts.
You Can’t Be Serious is available from Alexander Book Company, Barnes & Noble, Blue Cypress Books, Laguna Beach Books, The Last Bookstore, Powell’s City of Books, and Skylight Books.
Essa Rasheed is a Pakistani American animator and illustrator from Corona, California. Rasheed graduated from the University of California, Irvine with B.A.s in English and film and media studies. He was previously a food writer for The Bloomsday Review.