When we kicked off Neurodivergent Gumbo, we pulled apart the swamp magic of The Princess and the Frog—a story that dressed up systemic racism and class struggle in fairy dust, while still demanding assimilation as the price of love. This month, we’re turning our gaze to Mulan. Another Disney tale, another mask. But here, the mask is literal: a girl disguises herself as a man to bring honor to her family, only to discover that belonging always comes with conditions. Mulan has long been sold as a story of empowerment, but what if it’s really a manual for conditional worth? What if it’s less about courage and more about compliance? And what happens when the only way to be seen is to disappear first?
Intro: This Isn’t Just a Girl Power Story
They sold us Mulan as a girl power story.
But what they really gave us was a blueprint for conditional belonging.
A guidebook for performing worthiness.
A heroine who had to become someone else—a man, a soldier, a savior—before anyone would take her seriously.
As a neurodivergent, queer Black femme, I grew up being told I was “too much” one moment and “not enough” the next. Mulan hit differently. I saw myself in the awkward silences, the masking, the deep ache of trying to fit into a box that was never meant for me. I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I knew what it felt like:
to be hidden in plain sight.
To be the right shape only after contorting. To be celebrated only after disappearing.
This essay isn’t about tearing Mulan down.
It’s about telling the truth of what we saw—and what it taught us to become.
What it means when your softness is mistaken for shame.
What it costs to be exceptional just to be accepted.
And how Disney wrapped all that up in a catchy tune and handed it to children like a gift.
Welcome to Neurodivergent Gumbo.
We’re stirring the pot on Mulan.
Be Graceful, Be Quiet, Be Perfect”: The Tomboy Trap & Femininity on Trial
Disney has a habit of handing girls a mirror and saying: you’re not enough until you’re beautiful in the way we say you should be.
Mulan is no exception. From the start, she’s awkward—not because she lacks grace or intelligence, but because she doesn’t fit the mold. She’s painted clumsy, chaotic, and unfeminine. She spills tea, forgets protocol, and gets scolded for being herself. But underneath it? She’s strategic, observant, and quietly powerful.
Tomboys like Mulan are rarely just allowed to be. There’s always a price. If they’re strong, they must also be messy. If they’re smart, they must also be lonely. If they’re brave, they must be punished first. It’s as if Disney can’t imagine someone being masculine-of-center and desirable without first stripping them of softness or complexity.
And for girls of color—especially Black and Asian girls—this performance becomes even more layered and dangerous.
Black girls are policed from the moment they show a spark. Too loud, too fast, too much. Deemed “grown” when they’re still children.
Asian girls are flattened into submissive, delicate dolls. Expected to be quiet, graceful, and accommodating—every bit the mirror Mulan was handed.
Both are fetishized early:
Black girls made to feel animalistic, angry, or hypersexual.
Asian girls made to feel docile, exotic, and available.
I remember when my daughter was nearly sent home from school for wearing a spaghetti strap shirt. Not because it was explicit. Not because she was disruptive. But because, at her age and in her Black body, just existing in something that exposed her shoulders was seen as dangerous.
Meanwhile, her white classmates wore the same thing without consequence.
Our daughters are taught that their bodies are problems before they even know what a problem is.
And I remember exactly what I said:
“You’re going back to class. If anyone has a problem with it, they can talk to me directly.”
No one called.
Because what they’re really banking on is silence. Compliance. That we’ll scold our daughters into shame before they have to.
But not this time. Not my child. Not my name.
In Mulan, femininity is a checklist. Be graceful. Be quiet. Be perfect.
And if you fail? Shame. Rejection. Redirection.
She isn’t told she is broken—she’s told to bend until she fits the shape they need.
But what if the checklist is broken?
What if softness looks like strategy?
What if strength is quiet, curious, and a little messy on purpose?
Code Switching in Armor: Masking as Survival
Mulan doesn’t just cut her hair and steal armor—she disappears into a version of herself that’s more acceptable. More useful. More believable.
That’s not just a disguise.
That’s code-switching. That’s masking. That’s survival.
She watches how the men move, how they shout, how they joke, how they fight—and mimics it. She lowers her voice, tightens her gestures, dulls her softness until she can blend in without being targeted. And still, it almost kills her. One slip, one injury, one drop of blood too far out of place—and everything would have come crashing down.
That’s what it feels like to navigate a world that demands performance over presence.
To “pass” in rooms that were never built for you.
To be praised for how well you adapt, never asked how much it costs.
Mulan is praised only when her intelligence and strength serve the war machine. Her quick thinking with the avalanche isn’t celebrated because she was clever—it’s celebrated because she was useful. Not because she was true to herself. Not because she survived. But because she contributed.
That’s how it works in school, in relationships, in corporate life.
You’re not protected—you’re tolerated.
You’re not seen—you’re scanned.
You’re not loved—you’re leveraged.
So many of us know what it’s like to armor up just to get through the day.
To code-switch our voice, our posture, our cadence, even our clothes.
To over-correct for the comfort of people who still won’t protect us.
It reminds me of Victor/Victoria. Or Mrs. Doubtfire.
Stories where passing as something else—someone else—was the only way to be heard, taken seriously, or allowed to stay close.
In Victor/Victoria, she had to become a man pretending to be a woman to be respected as a performer.
In Mrs. Doubtfire, he had to become a woman to be trusted as a caretaker.
And in Mulan, she had to become a man to be considered brave, smart, or strong enough to protect her family.
None of them were lying.
They were adapting to survive systems that wouldn't allow them to exist as-is.
That’s what masking is. That’s what code-switching is.
It’s not a costume—it’s a contract.
One that says: “I’ll give up parts of myself if it means I get to stay.”
But here’s the question Mulan never gets to ask out loud:
Why do I have to disappear to be seen?💎
That’s where we’ll start: with Mulan’s mask, her awkwardness, and the rigid boxes that turn difference into shame.
But next week, we’ll go deeper—into invisibility, desirability, and the cost of being recognized only after you’ve bled for everyone else.
Until then, I’d love to hear from you:
Have you ever been called “awkward” or “immature” when really you were just becoming yourself?
What masks have you been asked to wear to be seen?
Drop your thoughts in the comments. Let’s stir this gumbo together.
I have been masking my whole life I have even lost my sense of self. Even if I wanted to stop, I don’t remember what I want for myself anymore.