t’s a challenging world to live in. Over the past few years, many of us have had our favorite childhood memories tainted by the realization that something about them is problematic. Indeed, this is the reality of waking up to the society we live in—realizing that some of the things and people we cherished most contributed, at least in part, to the complex systems of oppression that many of us experience. We've seen this unfold in various ways: critics pointing out the lack of racial diversity in Disney characters, Hollywood's whitewashing becoming widely disparaged, and abusers in the media industry being held accountable with the rise of the Me Too movement.
At this point, it’s become a harrowing experience to open Twitter and see your favorite celebrity’s name trending. One wonders: did they die, or did they do something that I now have to hate them for?
Looking back on some of the characters we loved to hate growing up, I can’t help but notice how clearly gender-subversive some of the villains were. Scar from The Lion King, Ursula from The Little Mermaid, and Him from The Powerpuff Girls are the best examples that come to mind (also consider the features of Maleficent and the Ugly Stepsister from Shrek). We are meant to fear them. We are meant to root against them. But is it a coincidence that the villains of our stories have exaggerated features that resemble drag makeup? That their mannerisms are often effeminate?
When I was younger, it was easy to villainize these characters—and, by extension, anyone who looked or acted like them. I found characters like Cruella de Vil and Jafar garish and frightening, not just because of their sinister motivations, but also because of their appearance and mannerisms. This fed into the broader social conditioning that taught me to fear any “male” person who “acted like a woman.” It sent a subtle message: queer people were villains. I didn’t have a frame of reference for this; I just knew that the characters we were supposed to like were typically white (or light-skinned), thin, able-bodied, and gender-conforming. So, that was who I strived to become.
The stories we are told from birth suggest that every tale has a ‘good’ and a ‘bad’ side. As we get older, we realize the world is more complex than that. Yet, because of how we’re conditioned, we still apply that hero-villain lens to our lives. Our children—and future generations—deserve to hear their stories told and to feel that their voices matter. It is up to us to provide them with that framework. Despite the call for representation, the media hasn’t shifted in the ways we’d hoped: directors, producers, actors, and writers are still overwhelmingly white and male.
Representation is looking someone in the eye and saying, “I see you, and you are important.” Representation is what we owe to each other.
