By Hanna Pham

Standing on my tiptoes, I attempt to sneak a glance at the O2 Brixton stage to see if Mitski has arrived. The lights dim slightly; the false promise causes cheers in the crowd. But still no Mitski yet. After what feels like a lifetime of trying to see above a sea of blowouts and craning my neck backwards to ask my taller friends if they can see her yet, she arrives. When she finally comes out, it feels like we are the only two people in the entire venue.

As an Asian-American woman, it is rare to find anything in the entertainment industry that is inclusive or representative of my demographic. The experience of seeing Mitski live a few months ago was essentially a mecca for culturally confused diasporic Asian women like myself. Surrounded by fans who, like me, knew every lyric of every song, I screamed and cried with Mitski as she floated, punched and kicked her way across the stage, looking like a beautifully ethereal ghost exacting revenge against those who did her wrong. Her sweet melancholic voice would bounce from screeches to rich baritone notes.

I am still relatively new to the world of Mitski. Having discovered her during the early stages of the pandemic, she was a blessing in a time of international isolation. Alongside the rest of the world, I was locked up in my house with my family, leaving it only once a day to take a walk around the neighbourhood. There was something comforting about staying up until 4 am with Mitski’s Bury Me at Makeout Creek blaring in my ears. While everyone else slept, I could escape from the world and into her music.

As I got to know Mitski more through her music and absorption of any rare interview or social media posting, I began to feel like I had a special connection with Mitski. Both our lives were defined by the reckoning of two different cultural upbringings; she grapples with both her Japanese and American identity, while I hail from a Filipina mom and a Vietnamese father.

I’ll admit it: as an Asian-American woman, I do fully gatekeep Mitski’s music – but not without good reason. While I could list the names of popular white female artists forever, I can barely count on ten fingers the number of female Asian-American pop artists whose music I can hear my own experiences through.

Even though I strongly identify as American, due to my parents’ jobs in the U.S. State Department I moved around a lot, raised in Indonesia, Japan and Singapore. Mitski’s father also worked for the U.S. State Department. She grew up in Japan, Turkey, China, Malaysia and the Czech Republic. Knowing that Mitski, an Asian-American artist, could also relate to moving around every two to three years is a comfort, as is knowing there are others who fumble when asked, ‘where are you really from?’ and don’t know what it’s like to call anywhere in the world home. I’ve rarely experienced it from a friend, let alone a music artist.

Picking only one Mitski song that has had a fundamental impact on my identity is an impossible task. Her discography is the soundtrack to my life: I can pinpoint the different parts of it to various events and experiences. To me, her music is a means to express my experiences as a culturally confused Southeast Asian and American woman that are so difficult to articulate verbally.

When hearing First love/Late Spring I am taken back to my 14-year-old self, walking home from the school bus in downtown Tokyo with my crush, relishing every moment we accidentally brush up against each other. I would ensure that each step I took was as slow as possible – a vain attempt to lengthen the amount of time we walked together.

Listening to Your Best American Girl takes me back to every time I pinched my nose in an attempt to make it look pointer, stuck eyelid tape on to give the illusion that I had bigger eyes than I naturally did, or declined to go swimming with my friends in the summer to avoid getting a tan and making my brown skin even darker – all the qualities of myself that were intrinsic to the Asian physical identity that I hated. As I’ve grown older and more in touch with my Asian heritage, I’m slowly unlearning my internalised racism. Now, Your Best American Girl is a cathartic release of the self-hatred I held onto for so long.

Thank you, Mitski. Thank you for providing a soundtrack to reflect on my life, grapple with my identity and enjoy my commutes to and from university, making me feel like I’m the main character in a coming-of-age movie. Everyone deserves that kind of representation.