April, meanwhile, has her own downtrodden response at the ready, arguing, "C'mon, what percentage of magazine covers do you see an Asian on?" Is that a rhetorical question? Because you know who they say is really good at math. I'm kidding. I'M KIDDING. I'm being ironic. And, also, I can say it, because I'm Asian. And I'm also Jewish, French, Southern, a lesbian, a fierce Whig loyalist, and I have a mysterious third nipple. So I'm in the clear. Forever. April continues on, "Tyra has told me right up front..." and we kick it to what a label on the screen tells us are "auditions," where we find April standing before a preachy Tyra, who says, "If you're entering into this fashion world, you would be an underdog." I'm also a dog. Who talks. In French. And, back at the kitchen table, April finishes up in the second person (just like what Camille is quickly coming to learn is a required entity for this actual "conversation" they seem to be having), learning us all real good: she reminds us that, if you're Asian, "There's less [sic] slots for you in any runway show, editorial, or fashion magazine than any single other race you can even think of." I'd point out what a bold statement that is, but I'm too busy filling out my renewal subscription card for another year's worth of Prussian Fashion Weekly, because April's language on the matter was so strong I'm to assume that even cultures of nation's that no longer exist produce more supermodels than poor Asians. And if you're looking for up-and-comers who truly kick ass on an underwater shoot, look no further than the spread in the new Pangaea Wear Daily.
"I've never done anything that made me associate myself as Asian," April tells us, and on the knotty matter of race relations in America at the turn of the millennium, thank goodness we have a learned pundit of Camille's opinion on the matter to confessionalize: "I don't know how much April lives out her Japanese culture in her life, but her Japanese heritage might be that one thing that's gonna give her the edge." Oh, yeah? If you think that's enough to get her the pitying "disadvantaged youth" vote, y'all don't know there's a sick girl afoot.
Oh, there she is now. Sara is still lying stomach-down on the couch like she's the one losing hair and energy and dimensions to her ever one-note characterization of "sick girl," and Mercedes approaches and asks after a bracelet on Sara's arm. We learn that it is "from Iran," and we learn soon after that Sara's position on the couch must be known as the "juxtaposition," as she immediately picks up April's renouncing of her own thrillingly exotic plurality by countering, "I'm so proud of my Persian culture." But, proud or no, we are reminded that Sara's Muslim father would not prefer this particular vocational option for her, since it equates her with a whore. Don't ascribe such sinister intents to her career path, good Iranian citizen. She's not a whore. She's only a whore once a poll is introduced. Until then, she's merely a "talentless actress."