Sunny Moraine opines
An omnipresent figure in speculative fiction is the extraordinary, heroic child, or the ordinary child who goes to extraordinary places and does heroic things. It’s not hard to understand why. A tremendous number of us grew up in uncomfortable circumstances, dealt with major social awkwardness, probably bullying, shunning, and the feeling that we didn’t belong and didn’t know how to do so. Imaginative children usually don’t have the easiest time of it. Very few children do, but some clearly have a harder time than others.
It’s in so many of our stories. Because of our imaginativeness, we took some of the very things that were making our lives difficult and we made use of them as coping devices. When the world around me was unbearable, I read stories and I told myself stories of my own.
This is how so many of us survive.
What’s important to understand about this particular mode of survival—often labeled “escapism”—is that it’s not only about escaping the unbearable present; it’s about imagining a future where things are bearable and where, in some way, we’re more than we are. It’s a promise: things won’t always be like this. Things might get better. Hell, things will get better. Hang in there. Be strong.
They don’t see you for what you are. But you are.
This is only one reason why we say representation is so important. If no one like you is in any of these other worlds, what does that say about who and what it’s possible for you to be? How are you supposed to imagine a future where you’re absent?
It’s about possibility. It’s about the ability to imagine the finish line, to imagine yourself reaching it. Run the race, even if it’s utterly miserable and difficult beyond what you ever thought you could handle, because there might be an end.
Even more, you can imagine yourself running at all.
We haven’t been okay for a while. For many of us, this experience of not-okay began a long time before the recent election. For many of us, not being okay has been the baseline along which life itself is experienced, the result of living in a world where every important element of the social world is organized to oppress and dominate marginalized people. But there’s a general sense that what’s going on right now, in the U.S. and elsewhere, is something new. It’s bigger, it’s more powerful, it’s farther-reaching. In some ways it’s merely a more obvious manifestation of what was already there. But that’s not all it is.
Things are getting worse. They’re not done getting worse.
Our control over our present is under attack, but it doesn’t end there. Also being attacked is our ability to construct and understand our own pasts. Also being attacked is our ability to imagine our own futures.
I’ve spent far too many nights lying awake and trying to come to terms with the feeling that my future has been stolen from me. That I can’t imagine it, because it simply isn’t there.
More than once, I’ve seen depression described as the inability to imagine beyond a specific point in time. I’ve certainly experienced it that way. Depression as the experience of being temporally frozen, of being locked in. Everything is static. Nothing will change. What you feel now—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the monotonous sadness—is what you’ll always feel. You won’t get past or through; there is no other side on which you can emerge.
Your past is inconsequential. Your future is nonexistent. Your flat gray present is the only story you can tell yourself. It’s the only story you can believe. It’s all you have.
The election—how it went and what happened after—was in itself an assault on the imagination, because many of us—though God knows not all—found it just about impossible to imagine that it could happen. And no one wanted to.
It’s not a liberating sense of “hey, anything could happen now!” It’s a profound feeling that no one and nothing is safe. The framework by which we organized our anticipation of events was torn down all at once. We don’t know what to imagine anymore. We don’t know what stories to tell ourselves.
In conversation, friends and family lay out hypotheticals and ask each other what we think. Is it possible that X? Do you think Y could happen? What about Z? Sometimes I feel like I can answer. More often I don’t. Most of the time I don’t want to try. The future is even more incomprehensible than the present, because the present is itself incomprehensible, so there’s nowhere to go.
To be fair, the narrative of the past does indeed offer an answer to the question How the hell did this even happen? It’s just that when it comes to the future, it’s not terribly helpful.
I often don’t feel like I’m equipped to speculate. I feel like we’re trapped in the now, and we won’t ever get out of it. I feel like this might be all we have.
Other worlds in speculative fiction don’t exist apart and separate from the world we live in. They’re connected in the most fundamental way. They’re a form of claims-making on reality. As a genre, speculative fiction allows us to remake our own present. It allows us to imagine a future for ourselves. It allows us to make a way out of whatever unbearable moment we seem to be stuck in.
It doesn’t give us a finish line. It gives us the race.
These days, when we try to envision what our resistance will consist of, we tell ourselves that this is a marathon and not a sprint. We tell ourselves stories about the race we have to run, before we start and when we’re in the midst of it. We try to imagine the finish line, this concrete future. It would be wonderful to believe that we’ll know when we cross it, that we’ll know when we can stop running. We might even be able to see it in the distance.
It’s there and we’ll reach it. It’s an easy story to tell. It’s an easy story to believe.
So maybe this isn’t going to be like a race after all.
Though of course, that’s just a story for teenage girls, and everyone knows stories for teenage girls don’t have anything useful to say about fascism or totalitarianism.
It’s frustrating to me that these books don’t get nearly the attention that Orwell’s classic does, not least because Butler and Atwood have some things to say about what we’re living through that Orwell never comes close to addressing. I can imagine myself in the future Butler creates, not least because that future so closely resembles the immediate present (her America could easily be our America, under the current administration). Likewise The Handmaid’s Tale horrifies me now precisely because of how imminent it feels, as if we might be only two or three catastrophes away from Gilead—catastrophes Atwood lays out with alarming plausibility.
These are our horror stories. For some of us they’re far more horrifying than they are for others, because for those people, these futures are far more real—because of how closely they resemble the horrific present and the horrific past.
Yet the fact that marginalized people can read these imagined futures and see ourselves represented in these horrific futures is powerful. Because we exist. We are there.
A frequently-made observation: in so many stories of the future, something must have happened that wiped out all People of Color. Some cataclysmic event killed all the queer people, all the trans people, all the people with disabilities. Something must have Happened and we all died, because we certainly don’t appear to be there.
Whatever happened, none of the survivors seem willing to talk about it. They don’t seem willing to acknowledge the event at all. Maybe it was simply that terrible. Or maybe it’s simply not worth talking about.
When we tell and read our own stories of these horrific futures, we lay claim to our own horror. We claim our suffering. We claim the right to describe it. We claim the right to imagine.
They’re stories about resistance.
This is why speculative fiction is exactly what we need right now. It allows us to imagine ourselves into these futures, and that’s a vital first step, but that’s not all they do. These stories of the future, stories that feel so piercingly true, allows us to imagine what it looks like to fight in those futures. We can imagine resistance, and if we can imagine a future in which we are present and matter and resist, we can imagine a present in which we can do the same. We can look at the nightmarish aspects of our current America and we can dream of Butler’s Earthseed, and that dream is real. We aren’t trapped in this present moment, no matter how overwhelming the feeling is. Stories of the future show us a way out.
Imagining what the monstrous people in power might do next will only take us so far. But when we tell the stories of our futures, we can imagine what we’ll need to do to care for each other, to protect each other, to fight for each other. The truth is that we can’t imagine a finish line, because there very possibly isn’t one. But we can imagine the race, and what it’ll take to make sure we can all keep running.
But I can look to these stories where we’re still there and still fighting. It’s imaginable. It’s doable. When it comes to this kind of speculation, I’m equipped. I have to be. The speculation is the equipment.
It’s what we have.
I never got picked on to the point of being bullied, but my response to getting picked on was annoyance and rebellion–rebellion as in getting even more so in what I was picked on for: being quiet.
@1 Lisamarie, I’ve been rereading the Potter series again, and making a resistance/endurance list–what to do, what to look for, etc., according to each book, and am up to OP. Oddly enough, the list from PS is longest, perhaps since later books reinforce things, but there are different things in later books. My “handbooks for resistance” list is the same as my “coping mechanism books” list–the Bible, the Potter series, Arendt’s The Origins of Totalitarianism, Wilder’s The Long Winter, tho’ I’ve added some pure distraction books to the “coping mechanism books” list.
I liked your text and agree with your proposal in the text. Just want to disagree with you with the character you added to Hunger Games. Hunger Games is a copycat of the japanese Battle Royale, therefore It must not be taken seriously in serious intellectual circles as any copycat must not. I don’t like it specially because they changed the nihilism of the original text for a transcendent motif for the american audience and this changed completely the nature of the text. Why can’t western audience accept nihilism? In parts of your text you flirt with it, like when you write about the ‘sinister Master Plan’ and the hard truth that it doesn’t exist, we have to accept that we are subjects to the contingences of life and that there’s no Big Other manipulating the strings, no master plan, that morons are in power, their stupidity is going to make our lifes miserable and no hero will rise to save us from our stasis. only everyday struggle will keep this dark future from happening, specially when the tide is against us this moment of time.
4. Though of course, that’s just a story for teenage girls, and everyone knows stories for teenage girls don’t have anything useful to say about fascism or totalitarianism.”
THIS. So much THIS. The Hunger Games trilogy was brilliant in so many ways, but it seems people either a) are willfully ignoring the deeper meanings or b) just can’t see them, probably because of preconceptions about teen girl stories. But The Hunger Games trilogy showed the true psychological effects of a dystopian world in a way many stories are afraid to. It showed PTSD more honestly than most stories. It showed the power of martyrs, of propaganda. It showed how powerful the tiniest symbol of resistance. And even at the end, it refused to make a “happily ever after”; it showed that Katniss will be working through the trauma she suffered for the rest of her life.
The other thing that pisses me off when we talk about The Hunger Games is that people dismiss it as “another story with a ‘strong’ female character who isn’t permitted agency”, but THE ENTIRE DAMN POINT of The Hunger Games trilogy was that in war, we are all pawns, and nobody is really a winner. It blows my mind how many people couldn’t see that that was the entire point.
Anyway, I could rant for days about this, so I’m going to wander off to my own work now. Thanks for the thoughtful post!