I earn a living acting within the powerful machinery of Hollywood—an industry that profits from my presence, yet wasn’t designed with me in mind. It’s a place where being “too ethnic” isn’t just a suggestion to tone it down—it’s a directive.
Once, while filming a scene, I was told, “Not so much of the ethnic hands!” It wasn’t a joke. That’s the reality of working in a space where my gestures, my body, and even my heritage are seen as negotiable. I remember whispering to myself, half-smiling, “White hands, Chris. White hands.”
Yes, that really happened.
The Burden of Being Chosen
Acting requires more than talent—it demands validation. It’s about being selected. And often, selection hinges on desirability through a particular lens: the white gaze. When your livelihood is tied to how appealing you are to someone else’s standard, your body stops feeling like your own. My brown skin, my curls, my features—they’re constantly assessed, molded, and marketed for an audience that doesn’t look like me. The decision-makers, the executives who cut the checks, are overwhelmingly white. So to succeed, I must be desirable to them.
And while I’m grateful for the paychecks—I have rent to cover—it’s not enough. True power lies not in being chosen, but in doing the choosing. Until people who look like me are the ones greenlighting scripts, casting roles, and funding films, this dynamic won’t shift.
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Assimilation as a Survival Strategy
The fear of rejection, of fading into the background, runs deep. It’s a survival instinct: If I stray too far from what Hollywood deems acceptable, everything I’ve worked for could disappear. That’s why many of us play along—we learn how to appear just ethnic enough, but not too much. In 2020, I created a short film for The New York Times about this tension. It explored the paradox of “making it” as a person of color in Hollywood: be different enough to be noticed, but similar enough to be cast. Be yourself—but only within the limits of whiteness.
That was also the year of reckoning. George Floyd’s murder sparked global protests and brought conversations about racial inequality to the forefront. Corporate statements flooded in. DEI hires were made. But as the noise quieted, very little actually changed. The same stories are being told by the same people.
Where’s the Representation?
According to Pew Research, Latines represented half of the U.S. population growth from 2010 to 2019, making up 18% of the population—and growing. But our presence on screen? Barely a blip. The disconnect is glaring.
Even with a regular role on a network television series, I still question myself when I’m between jobs. I wonder: Should I take that stereotypical drug dealer role just to stay visible? Should I alter my image to fit someone else’s idea of “neutral”? For people of color in Hollywood, this isn’t insecurity—it’s strategy. It’s survival.
The Cost of Code-Switching
Too often, actors of color are asked to compromise. So we adapt. We tame our curls, lighten our features, learn how to soften who we are. I remember my first manager recommending a nose job—and I got one. The sad part? It worked. I got more roles. But what does that say about our industry?
Meanwhile, white actors express envy. I’ve been told, “You’re lucky. You’re Latin. Everyone wants you now.” As if my identity is a trending topic they can’t access. Once, a man on Craigslist actually said, “It’s great they’re hiring more minorities, but now I can’t get a role.” The irony stings.
What many don’t see is the psychological toll—the weight of constantly adjusting yourself to fit a mold that was never yours to begin with.
Hollywood’s Fear of Change
In a screenwriting class, I learned that show longevity often depends on characters never truly changing. Executives prefer familiarity. Growth disrupts the formula. This creative stagnation doesn’t just affect storylines—it affects our culture. It teaches viewers, subtly and consistently, that transformation isn’t real, and that people—especially marginalized people—are meant to remain in struggle.
We internalize these messages. We absorb and repeat them until they define us.
Who Gets to Tell the Stories?
Hollywood doesn’t just need diverse casts—it needs diverse creators behind the camera. Authentic storytelling starts with authentic storytellers. If all the writers, producers, and executives look the same, how can the stories truly reflect our world?
We need to stop asking, “Can this character be played by a person of color?” and start asking, “Why wouldn’t they be?” Let’s create narratives that reflect our full humanity—not just our trauma, our poverty, or our crime statistics.
Imagine a Dominican rom-com. An Afro-Diasporic fantasy scored with bachata. A South Asian buddy comedy. A Cambodian American college love story. Not about race—just about life. Stories where people of color exist as fully realized characters, not plot devices.
That’s not diversity. That’s reality.
Imagination Is Power
Poet William Blake called imagination the “divine vision.” Media holds that power. It can shift culture. It can redefine who belongs. For so long, television reminded me that I didn’t belong. Now, I’m a series regular—curls and all—on a Fox sitcom. But even now, I ask myself: Am I here for the long haul, or just a token? Can I shape the narrative, or am I still playing by someone else’s rules?
My goal is to create work that reflects who I am and uplifts others like me. I want to sign the checks, not just cash them. Because that’s when things really change.
Beyond Representation: Toward Liberation
Representation isn’t a checkbox. It’s a responsibility. We must honor the complexity of people of color in our stories. Not to fulfill quotas, but to reflect truth. It’s time we stopped recycling the same tropes and started writing stories that show people of color as full, flawed, vibrant, beautiful human beings.
My relationship with code-switching has changed since that 2020 film. I now wear my curls with pride. I show up fully. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to self-doubt—but I choose authenticity as my baseline. I change when it serves the story, not when it erases who I am.
To My Fellow Artists of Color
Stay loud. Stay committed. Set boundaries. Be intentional about what stories you tell and who you uplift. And remember: just because you’re in the room doesn’t mean you can’t uphold harmful systems. Allyship starts with accountability. So let’s hold each other to a higher standard.
We must build spaces where we belong. Not as tokens, not as accessories to white-centered stories—but as architects of our own narratives.
Frequently Asked Questions
What does “navigating White Hollywood” mean?
“Navigating White Hollywood” refers to working within an entertainment industry dominated by white decision-makers, values, and aesthetics. It involves the ongoing challenge of finding success without compromising one’s cultural identity in an environment where whiteness is often the unspoken standard.
Why is there pressure to conform in Hollywood?
Hollywood often favors actors, narratives, and appearances that fit a mainstream (typically white) mold. Actors of color may feel pressure to alter their looks, behaviors, or accents to gain roles, appeal to casting directors, or avoid being stereotyped. This pressure stems from systemic racism and longstanding industry norms.
How does code-switching manifest for actors of color?
For actors, code-switching can mean changing hairstyles, suppressing natural accents, or adjusting body language to appear “less ethnic” on screen. It also includes modifying one’s creative voice to align with what white producers and audiences deem marketable or “relatable.”
Has Hollywood improved in terms of diversity and inclusion?
While there have been public commitments to diversity and more visible representation in recent years, true systemic change has been slow. DEI initiatives often lack follow-through, and key roles behind the camera remain disproportionately white.
What’s the connection between desirability and race in Hollywood?
Desirability in Hollywood is often shaped by Eurocentric beauty standards. Actors of color are frequently evaluated through a white gaze, meaning their appeal is judged based on how well they fit into these norms rather than their authentic identities.
Why is it important for people of color to be behind the camera?
Representation behind the camera ensures that stories are told with authenticity, depth, and nuance. When writers, directors, and producers reflect the diversity of the real world, the resulting stories are more accurate, empowering, and less reliant on stereotypes.
How can actors of color protect their identity in the industry?
Actors can protect their identity by setting boundaries, choosing roles that reflect their values, collaborating with inclusive creators, and developing their own content. Staying grounded in cultural pride and connecting with supportive communities is also essential.
Conclusion
Navigating Hollywood as a person of color means constantly walking the tightrope between visibility and authenticity. It’s about learning how to exist in an industry that wants your talent but not always your truth. While the paychecks are real, so is the emotional cost of shrinking, conforming, and performing for someone else’s comfort.