Authentic Representation
What it is, why it matters, and is the creative community getting it right?
Hello, Sunshine ☀️ Welcome back to the Hinterlands 🌳
My editor was delighted to distract the werewolf this week, which gave me a chance to run for it and discover some new items growing in the Hinterlands. And the pervasive thought that keeps surfacing is this idea of representation: seeing oneself depicted in society. We spend a lot of time talking about this in the film industry and now in our literature. We want the stories we consume to reflect our cultural and interpersonal experiences: to see heroes that aren’t all white, heterosexual males, or flawed humans who still manage to save the world. Is it enough to take a popular “whitewashed” sitcom or movie and remake it with a more culturally diverse cast? When choosing an ensemble, is it sufficient to ensure there’s “one of each” (as I have unfortunately heard it explained on several internet forums)? When we say representation, what do we actually mean?
I read a blog post by James Wallace Harris recently about autistic characters in fiction. He discusses the dangers of viewing classic, even iconic, fiction characters through a “pop culture lens” and diagnosing them with conditions like autism. He goes on to repeat, in varying ways, the sentiment that “aren’t we all a little autistic?” or “don’t we all struggle with this or that thing?” And he isn’t wrong. Some of the defining traits of mental health disorders or neurodevelopmental conditions can be seen and/or demonstrated by the “average” person. What makes something a disorder or condition, however, is the extent to which the combination of those symptoms and features impairs the person experiencing them. This is the danger behind the “aren’t we all…” sentiments: it belittles the impact that condition has on the person diagnosed, and it doesn’t speak to the stigmatized story of that person trying to survive in a world where they are the exception to the “typical” rule.
Harris’s idea that “we’re all special in our own way” harkens back to that classic, theme-stated line made by Syndrome from The Incredibles: “And when everyone is super, no one will be.” Buddy, who became the villain Syndrome, viewed “supers” as an elite class of people he wanted to join, and when told he couldn’t because he lacked powers, he created them (in a Batman-like fashion) believing what he created was just as good or valuable as the powers supers had innately. But within that same universe, supers were viewed by the world as a public menace, costing millions of taxpayer dollars in repairs to reconstruct their cities after supers engaged in battles with villains. No one blamed the villains with vendettas against humanity; they blamed the supers, and ostracized them, made them outcasts. We see this again in the Spider-Man franchise, where Peter is essentially viewed as a vigilante, the real villain of New York City, because he is taking matters into his own hands. Let’s be honest: the typical police departments in these films are no match for the kinds of mutated, super-power-wielding anarchists these villains become. New York needs Spider-Man, like Metroville needs the Incredibles and the other supers.
But representation isn’t just about the way society defines mediocrity. And it isn’t just about “I’m _____, and I don’t see that on screen”, although that point is equally meaningful. I submit true representation is deeper than that. If art imitates life, then I should see stories that depict who and what I am, whatever my fill-in-the-blank experience happens to be. And not just because none of these people look or act like me, but because the story of my experience exists in that narrative.
Let’s dissect Friends for a moment. I friggin’ love this show: I was a faithful viewer in the 90s and 2000s when it aired, and I’m a Friends fanatic now. But the thing we all notice thirty years later is the “problems” of Friends: the lack of diversity, the stereotypical lesbian depictions, Chandler’s transgender “father”. But the jokes and storylines have aged so well that Friends continues to make billions in streaming and syndication. Why? Because we can see ourselves in those stories. The reunion show on Max proves it with hundreds of thousands of people from countries around the world raving about how the show, in some cases, literally saved their lives.
As a storyteller, I don’t make my characters black simply because I am; I don’t see the value in that. In fact, unless their skin color matters because of the region or locale they are from, you rarely see me mention it. I only give the details that shape the story of my character. Audax in The Lova Chronicles has skin “the color of clover honey”; he’s from the Sands, a desert region of the Four Realms, and he has metallic blue tattoos that tell the story of his birth through his current life. His skin tone matters because the tattoos matter, and where he’s from in my universe of Algeia has a rich ancestral history integral to his character's values and motivations. In a movie adaptation (if I am ever so blessed), Audax cannot be played by a white male. It would significantly change the story.
While there are a lot of writing and story issues with The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Marvel series on Disney+, making Captain America a black guy matters. Done poorly, yes. But there’s a significance to Sam being chosen over Bucky or even John Walker. After all, it’s Captain America: the post is a definitive branding package for classic American patriotism. And the first guy, the only guy, to ever do it, to iconize it and make it an aspiration for every kid in the world, was Steve Rogers, your typical white American male. So what does it mean for a black man to become the next Captain America in a race-divided, post-BlackLivesMatter United States when he represents the opposite of what that society defines as American? That’s an interesting concept to explore. That is good storytelling (or should have been).
In A Wrinkle in Time, Charles Wallace is autistic. This isn’t explicitly stated; we didn’t have a term in the 60s for “the little professor” presentation of autism, which later became known as Asperger’s Syndrome (and is now absorbed into the overarching autism spectrum). Charles Wallace, like many autistic people, was just a weird, bullied kid who was highly intuitive and presented much older than his age. But Charles Wallace has to be autistic in this story; these qualities are integral to why IT even wants him, and his otherness is a direct foil to Meg’s inability to accept herself or the oddities of her highly intellectual family. If Charles Wallace isn’t autistic, the story changes drastically. In fact, the story has no catalyst whatsoever without that detail.
In Netflix’s Uglies, Laverne Cox plays Dr. Nia Cable, the villain of this dystopian world where citizens are expected to alter their faces (and minds) at the age of 16 to conform to the larger society. Laverne Cox, as a black transgender woman, playing this character who is written as the defining icon of beauty and acceptance in this particular world speaks volumes to the inclusion of minorities and transgenders in beauty standards. Her presence makes a statement that adds depth and challenges the viewer’s idea of these concepts. Casting Laverne is not just about “we don’t see transgenders enough on screen”. It adds something pertinent to the story.
Why make the Hamilton cast entirely non-white, despite many of the characters depicted having been historically Anglo-Saxon? Because Lin-Manuel Miranda wanted to highlight America’s inherent (and often ignored) immigrant roots. The casting choices played to his themes—with global acclaim.
Let’s be clear: I’m not talking about opportunity. The availability of roles for people of color in the entertainment industry is more about access and discrimination than it is representation. Representation is about how our stories are told, if they are told.
Sinners, for example, while engaging and entertaining blockbuster fodder, was just From Dusk Til Dawn with black people. Yes, some African American spiritual and cultural beliefs were intermingled in the story in a way From Dusk Til Dawn did not, but if you removed those elements or made the cast entirely white, I argue it would not have altered the plot or theme of the story. The first Black Panther movie, however, becomes and reads as something else entirely if Wakanda is a European nation of fair-skinned natives. The motivations and values of every character in that franchise would be notably altered in the wake of that change.
Neurodivergence is gaining awareness, and I love the conversations the world is now willing to have about understanding neurotypes, alternative ways of thinking, learning, and viewing the world, and the challenges that come with those conditions. And pop culture entertainment is taking note of this. But that can be both good and bad. Let’s not write neurodivergent characters simply because “we don’t see any”. Because the truth is we’ve seen them plenty in iconic characters like Sherlock Holmes, Charles Wallace, and even Mina, the tormented heroine of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. We just didn’t know it then.
Representation is about telling our stories from the vantage point of the character to whom that story matters. How does Sheldon’s autism impact the story of the ensemble he is in, and would that story change if he was not autistic? How does Hawking’s ALS make his story more compelling? If Dr. Spock was not a Vulcan, does it change the narrative of Star Trek and what he adds to the crew? And if it does change, how?
We don’t need neurodivergent characters; we need neurodivergent stories. Just like we need black American stories, Native American stories, paraplegic heroines, and kids with voice and autonomy, we need real depictions of true-to-life experiences. We need stories of our culture, our history, and our lives as informed and molded by our experiences, regardless of whatever our fill-in-the-blank is. Our audience can tell the difference, even if they cannot verbalize the pieces that feel “off”. We need to authenticate minority experiences through our storytelling rather than casting or creating characters with labels just because we “don’t see it enough”.
What good does inclusion make if the elements we add to our characters have no impact on their lives? Why make Ms. Marvel Pakistani if it doesn’t change her narrative (yes, Marvel/Disney, I’m looking at you!) It’s not inclusion—and emphatically does not count as representation—if the decision to write a character a certain way is arbitrary. Make the inclusion matter to the story, empower that person in some way, elevate the narrative in a way that makes that element crucial to the storytelling.
Yes, representation does matter. Seeing yourself depicted in an affirming and empowering way changes the average person’s landscape. It helps them believe in themselves and envision a life or future that can be better than what they see in front of them. It breeds hope. But that hope is only possible if we use our pens responsibly, intentionally, and honor the narrative.