the overwhelming presence of western media

i do not listen to one direction nor have i watched gilmore girls

Vincent Giarrano

Discomfort settles in the room when I say I’ve never listened to One Direction. An awkward silence follows when I admit I’ve never watched Gilmore Girls or the new Netflix shows. It is not defiance for defiance’s sake, just truth. And yet, in those moments, it feels like I’ve confessed to a moral failing, like I’ve neglected a rite of passage that should have sculpted my adolescence. What’s startling is not the expectation that I should have consumed these Western pop culture products, but the assumption that I must have, because how else could one be a functioning young adult in the 21st century? We live in a world so saturated by Western media and its references that any deviation from its scripted canon, whether pop music, television, film, or internet culture, is seen as a deficiency. There is a quiet tyranny at play here. One that parades itself as a culture but functions more like a form of soft colonialism.

We are told that the “real” Little Mermaid is a red-haired white girl named Ariel; we are not merely talking about fan loyalty. We are speaking to the overwhelming power of Disney’s global reach and how cultural domination often comes disguised in the glitter of fairy tales. Long before Disney stamped its logo on mermaids, they lived in the waters of countless myths: Mami Wata from West Africa, Jiaoren from China, and Nyai Roro Kidul from Indonesia. These aquatic figures have been part of cultural and spiritual worlds far older than any media empire. Commercial success and American soft power have bulldozed many local variations, rebranding and reimagining them to suit palatable Western aesthetics. Now, any attempt to reintroduce racial or cultural plurality, like casting a Black woman as Ariel, is met with backlash. Not because the myth has been altered, but because the commercial face of the myth has been disrupted. It’s become heretical to deviate from the corporately sanctioned image.

It is exhausting, truly, to constantly defend your taste as if it were a character flaw. I’ve had people look genuinely heartbroken when I say I never obsessed over Harry Potter books or screamed about Taylor Swift’s re-releases. Their disappointment hovers in the air, like I’ve missed out on some emotional pilgrimage that was supposed to unite us all. They don’t notice how, in that moment, their world becomes the only valid world. They don’t realise that I too was consuming media—Twilight, Disney, yes—but also Korean music, Senegalese films, Latin American television shows and series, Japanese animation, Aboriginal artworks, and slowly trying to regain parts of my Yoruba identity that have been buried under the weight of imported stories. Because that’s the cruel joke, isn’t it? That I did have the West shoved in my face. That no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape it. I was drowning in the drama of white teenage vampires while our own myths and folklore were slowly becoming footnotes.

And now, it seems, we’ve reached the era of reference as identity. Not knowing the latest band of sad indie girls with acoustic guitars is considered a social faux pas. Failing to recognise the new hot white boy actor of the month makes you culturally illiterate. Even being indifferent to Formula 1, something I try to feign interest in, just to keep up, is framed as a lack of curiosity, rather than a valid preference. Meanwhile, I’d rather spend hours watching films by Ousmane Sembène and Hayao Miyazaki or getting lost analysing K-pop situations and drama. But that doesn’t slot neatly into the algorithm of shared experiences we’ve been told to prioritise. Being a third-culture kid makes this contradiction all the more visceral. My taste doesn’t come from a singular homeland—it is scattered across languages and landscapes. It isn’t cohesive. It’s a mosaic. I’ve learned to love the beautiful blend of narratives, not the monotony of monoculture. But that also means constantly feeling like the “other” in conversations shaped by American television and British music. My nostalgia doesn’t align with theirs. My girlhood wasn’t soundtracked by Jonas Brothers albums or shaped by episodes of Friends. And that is truly okay. Or at least, it should be.

I don’t really care about the Grammys, the Oscars, or the Met Gala the way I used to when I was younger. And if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I ever truly cared to begin with. Looking back, my interest in those events wasn’t rooted in any genuine passion or curiosity, it was about survival. It was about not being the odd one out, about not being labelled uncultured or out of touch for failing to memorise which actress wore which designer at some extravagant ball I had no real connection to. There is this unspoken rule that to be disinterested in Western pop events is to be seen as stupid, uncool, or socially oblivious. So I played along. I learned the names. I feigned excitement. I nodded as people dissected red carpet moments, even though none of it stirred me. It was never really my jam—it was just about the performance of belonging in a world that equates Western cultural capital with intelligence, taste and relevance.

Even when people claim to like things outside of the Western canon, it’s often surface-level and filtered through a lens of Western validation. There’s this idea that something “foreign” is only worth engaging with once it’s been given a Western stamp of approval—an Oscar, a Vogue mention, a Netflix push. As a Studio Ghibli enthusiast, I’ve seen this firsthand. Many people claim to love Ghibli, but when you press further, they’ve only seen Spirited Away, usually because it won an Academy Award. That’s the one they’re told is important, so that’s the one they watch. What about Castle in the Sky or From Up on Poppy Hill? These films are brimming with wonder, but are not loudly celebrated in the West, so they’re ignored or overlooked. It’s frustrating to see a body of work that means so much to me reduced to a checklist item on someone’s performative cultural literary resume. I remember in high school, the same white girls who used to scoff at anime, mock K-dramas, and laugh at “those weird Asian shows” suddenly couldn’t stop talking about Squid Game. Overnight, it was cool. It was meme-worthy. It was legitimate because it had climbed the Netflix charts and had been written about in the New Yorker. And I couldn’t help but wonder to myself: must a piece of non-Western media first be validated by the West before it’s seen as art?

Why does global brilliance have to be filtered through Western gatekeeping to matter? It’s not appreciation, it’s assimilation. People are waiting to be told what’s worthy rather than exploring on their own terms. Frankly, it is weird watching the same people who dismiss these cultures now parade around in shallow appreciation. Western media’s dominance has warped how we think about relevance and legitimacy. It has convinced us that certain stories matter more simply because they’re louder, shinier, and better funded. It has blurred the line between cultural influence and cultural imperialism. It has made us question the value of our tastes and timelines.

So no, I haven’t watched Mamma Mia. I don’t care about Harry Styles’ latest album or what’s trending on Netflix today. And if that means I’m culturally out of touch, then maybe it’s the culture that needs to widen its lens. The world is far too big, vast and ancient for us to keep pretending that Western stories are the only ones worth telling.

On another note, thank you for continuing to support whispers of oizys. I am grateful and happy to have supportive, cool, amazing subscribers and readers. It is crazy that whispers of oizys is not even 2 years old yet, but we’re already at 5K+ subscribers!! Thank you 💛 💚 ❤️

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“The domination of Western values, beliefs, and way of life has angered many from the East and in developing countries.” — Silvia Cartwright