when visibility feels like disruption: inclusivity, representation in media, and the default standard.
- josiah.
- May 25
- 5 min read
Updated: Jun 1
As more shows, ads, and influencers reflect a wider range of identities, whether that be queer, BIPOC, disabled, or beyond, some people seem to get uncomfortable. You can see this in comment sections where debates unfold about “too much representation” or claims that media is becoming “political.” Why does inclusion, something that should feel positive, stir so much tension? Maybe it unsettles a standard that’s long felt “normal,” similar to how people look at the pre-pandemic world as “normal.”
the default standard.
For so long, media has set a default standard: the cisgender, white, heterosexual male. This hasn’t just been the norm in American society but in many parts of the world, and for decades, if not centuries. Growing up, I didn’t always notice it. I was a white kid in a family that wasn’t quite middle class but close. It was just the way things were.
The white Superman. The white Batman. The white boyband, with maybe one member like Zayn from One Direction, who's undeniably talented but has even seen himself as the “diverse one.” The white cops. The white lawyer. The white dentist. The white Peter Parker.
Then, on the flip side, media often defaulted to roles like the stereotyped POC taxi driver, the tokenized customer service representative from India, or the typecast POC basketball player. Women were often relegated to limited roles, including separate leagues like the WNBA, the housewife, the mother, the provider, the maid, the teacher, and the nurse.
These are just a few roles I remember seeing as a kid, and they stuck with me. Do they represent whole communities? Absolutely not. These stereotypes and “norms” should never have been set in the first place.
inclusivity backlash and fatigue from representation in media.
So when a superhero series casts a woman of color in a lead role (like Ms. Marvel or She-Hulk) or a television show includes LGBTQ+ families (one notably being Cam and Mitchell from Modern Family), the pushback often follows. It could be as minimal as same-sex couple Susan and Cheryl dropping off their child for a playdate in Good Luck Charlie, and suddenly there are cries of “forced diversity” or demands to tone down the story so an “agenda” isn’t being fed to the children. But what’s really being asked is a return to the comfort of the default they’ve grown accustomed to, the version of the world they think is “normal.”
This discomfort with inclusion doesn’t just come from people overtly opposed to change. Sometimes, it’s more subtle, a feeling of fatigue, as if there’s “too much focus” on diversity lately. This reaction is often called “representation fatigue,” and while I understand that constant reminders of injustice can be emotionally draining, it’s important to ask whose fatigue we are talking about. For many marginalized groups, there’s no option to disengage. They live this reality daily. When someone complains that a show is “overly political” because it includes a trans character or highlights racism, it’s often a sign of resistance to acknowledging lives that haven’t been centered before.
digital platforms and misplaced outrage.
Digital platforms add another layer to this dynamic. Algorithms and virality determine who gets seen, and while increased visibility for diverse creators can feel like progress, it doesn’t always mean their voices are truly heard. Content that resonates with specific audiences might go viral for the wrong reasons, like being mocked or reduced to a “trend” rather than respected for its substance.
Remember when, in 2021, Lindsey Shaw felt the need to complain on TikTok when Black creators were trending with a slowed-down version of “Alors On Danse”? When her former co-star and ex-boyfriend Devon Werkheiser joined the trend, she was silent. Then she was called out, and she couldn’t take accountability for her actions. I’ve noticed this pattern in influencer spaces, where creators who challenge norms gain quick attention but face intense scrutiny or backlash just as fast. Some might think I’m picking and choosing, but this isn’t a one-off situation.
Actors John Boyega and Kelly Marie Tran were cast in the Star Wars sequel trilogy, and the backlash they received had nothing to do with the actual story or their performances. It was simply because they existed in those roles. Both faced harassment and racist comments for daring to disrupt the “default” in a major franchise.
In 2020, American political commentator and author Candace Owens criticized Harry Styles’ Vogue cover, complaining that his choice to wear a dress wasn’t “manly enough.” Somehow, the fabric on his body threatened the very idea of masculinity. Owens has also criticized the Black Lives Matter movement, downplayed the impact of slavery, and spread conspiracy theories about the organization. Her stance has drawn significant criticism, particularly given the historical context of racial injustice that continues to affect Black communities today.
In 2015, Target introduced its Pride-themed merchandise for June, and conservative groups have been loud about it every year despite it being just clothes that allow people to feel seen and accepted. Meanwhile, my only complaint is that the fabric has always been way too harsh on the skin. Anyway, online criticism escalated into threats against employees and vandalism of stores. In response, Target limited its Pride merchandise to select stores and online in 2024, choosing locations based on “historical sales performance.”
And then there was Gina Carano from The Mandalorian, who criticized people for using pronouns in their bios and downplayed social justice issues. I still can’t wrap my head around the outrage some people have over someone including “he/him” or “she/her” in a bio. We’ve been including our ages or random quotes in bios for years, but the moment someone clarifies their gender identity, it becomes a problem.
a cultural shift.
What stands out to me the most is how emotional this shift can feel, not just for those pushing against change but for everyone involved. I understand the perspective where someone may feel conflicted when they encounter a new type of story or face on a platform they have developed to meet their comfort level. Naturally, as humans, we are drawn to familiarity. In order for inclusivity to grow, it must be embraced further outside the comfort zone. We are taught to feel the way we do, which is why certain areas have particular demographics, whether politically or otherwise, due to the environment they have grown up in. This discomfort stems from unlearning the ingrained standard of what we expect to see, both in the media and in our everyday lives.
Inclusivity isn’t just about meeting a quota. It’s about genuinely expanding the stories of those we value. It’s so that a Puerto Rican boy can feel inspired after seeing Miles Morales, or a young Pakistani girl can see herself in Kamala Khan, or a Southeast Asian child can find strength in Raya. Shows like Master of None show actors like Aziz Ansari breaking out of the stereotypical mold that dominated for decades.
The newfound inclusion in media isn’t just a visual shift, but also cultural. We are invited to reflect on what we’ve accepted as the norm, where we are challenged to make space for perspectives we don’t necessarily relate to from the surface. While the discomfort can feel like disruption in some eyes, it’s a necessary step toward understanding and empathy, not just for those on the margins, but for all of us trying to figure out what a more inclusive world looks like.
How else can we make space for those whose stories we still aren’t hearing?
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