Primal fears and fiction genres: Plus I chew on ableism tropes
/I’ve crossed the midpoint of my first year of the Master of Fine Arts program at Eastern Oregon University. A quarter of the way through! It’s amazing how quickly it’s going by, though I have a sneaking suspicion that the next two terms are going to be a lot more challenging.
Last term brought some interesting quirks, such as assignments to write in spirals, invitations to mimic other writers and the first time assigned reading included a gothic novel. That last wasn’t as much fun as it might sound, at least not for me. The book was We Have Always Lived in a Castle by Shirley Jackson, and it’s based on the idea that disabled people are supposedly creepy.
The story is about Merricat, an 18-year-old girl, who narrates with the eerie voice of an odd child of around seven or eight, She lives in the lavish ancestral home of her upper-crust family, the Blackwoods, except the whole family is dead except for Merricat, her older sister Constance and their uncle. The uncle has been left incapacitated by the arsenic poisoning that killed the rest of the family. The nearby villagers taunt the girls mercilessly, because they assume the older sister Constance murdered the family. The reader gets increasing hints that Merricat is out of touch with reality and possibly mentally ill and then most of the way through the story, she suddenly tells the reader that she was the murderer. She killed her family by putting arsenic in the sugar. She knew Constance didn’t use sugar, and she wanted Constance to live. The survival of the uncle was an accident.
“Oh, how delightfully creepy!” is the standard reaction of horror and gothic fans.
I don’t get the attraction. There’s none of the suspense of a mystery or thriller plot. You don’t get clues, just a story in which Merricat is the victim of ostracism and then suddenly she’s the murderer. I never personally find this tactic suspenseful as a reader, but rather just plain irritating, because it is a cheap and lazy mechanism for writers. No actual subtlety is required to keep the secret and artfully reveal it, because the characters already know it and the reader can be teased at will.
Any spookiness or pleasurable horror in the book comes from the fact that Merricat appears to be dealing with a mental illness, a developmental disability or possibly both. What would in reality be a terrible tragedy and no laughing or shrieking matter—if it actually happened—is rendered as a caricature. In the beginning, the taunting villagers seem monstrously cruel but then the reader is apparently supposed to grasp their morbid fascination and share it.
I initially found the narrative voice of the book mildly charming, but as it turned out that it was the actual disability of the narrator that was the object of tittilating fear and loathing, my gut turned sour.
It certainly isn’t the first time a horror or gothic novel used disability or mental illness as a convenient catalyst for supposedly creepy vibes. I have a very strong reaction to any romanticizing and fetishizing of disability and mental illness. To me, there is nothing better in literature than hard experiences told well in an authentic manner that gives the reader an internal sense of what it is like to undergo such an experience. Conversely, the worst thing for me in literature is the use of hard life experiences for titillation and othering, such as to portray a character like Merricat as “fascinating” but utterly unlike one’s self.
Whenever I feel particularly upset at a book, I always consider when it was published, because it does matter to me what social context the writer was writing from. This book was originally published in 1962, so it’s relative lack of sensitivity and unreasonable portrayal of apparent developmental disability and mental illness (likely more intended by the author) is somewhat more forgivable than something written in the last twenty years would be, but it is a portrayal that has lived long past its relevance. I wish it wasn't being presented as a classic worth emulating.
Jackson apparently intended to portray Merricat as a “madwoman", a term that would have been already somewhat outdated at the time, as a form of titillation, for which numerous critics praised her. For some people, it’s creepy and spooky to think about “madness” or “losing one’s mind.” The concept of inherent evil in a child or childlike innocent adult is also a particularly icky trope that has stuck with us until today in the horror genre. The literary analysis I read speculated that Merricat’s “symptoms” most resemble Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. However, her “childlike” demeanor in which Jackson stated that she was 18 but then proceeded to write a seven-year-old makes Merricat appear “developmentally delayed.”
The problem with these portrayals is not first and foremost in their inaccuracy. It’s a tricky thing to write. I’m in the midst of attempting to write a developmentally disabled character with a lot more scientific backing than Jackson would have had to work with in the early 1960s, and I can attest that it is a challenge. The much more grievous problem is the use of disability/mental illness, whichever was intended by the author, as a crutch to invoke an eerie vibe and an impression of “inherent evil” that is so far beyond anyone’s control that it leaves even the one carrying the evil utterly innocent. It’s a trope intended to elicit titillation, from Merriam-Webster defined as “the stimulation of pleasurable excitement.” Horror and gothic literature are often defined as genres in which fear and spookiness evoke pleasure, and this is the function of the supposed “madness” in this book.
From Frankenstein to Freddy Kruger and on to today, so many horror and gothic villains are physically or mentally different. As most of my fellow writers argue, this is just the way horror and gothic genres are. The genre is based on the fear of monsters, so it is “natural” that readers are drawn to stories about people whose bodies or minds are twisted out of normality.
And “natural” it might well be, though that isn’t necessarily a defense. Arsenic is a naturally occurring element too. Doesn’t make it less poisonous.
At first I thought my nonfiction reading this past few weeks was a nice contrast, until I started to see a connection. I’ve been reading The Righteous Mind by Jonathan Haidt, a cognitive scientist specializing in the biological underpinnings of human morality. In a nutshell, Haidt identifies five interlocking mechanisms that appear to be genetically hard-wired in humans which then lead to all the moral judgements, ethics, taboos and so forth that various individuals and societies have come up with.
He mostly focuses on how this affects the thinking of various groups in modern American society. It's fascinating, and I believe his five mechanisms can be applied to fiction genres as well. Basically, Haidt says the human brain is wired to respond negatively if 1. harm is done, especially to a child, 2. something is unfair in the group, 3. someone is foreign or disloyal to the group, 4. the order and hierarchy of the group is threatened, or 5. something is reminiscent of possible pathogens or disease. All of these responses helped humans to survive and pass their genes on. As a result, negative reactions to these cues were selected for as were positive responses to their converse (1. care for others, especially those who. may carry one’s genes forward, 2. justice and fairness in groups, 3. loyalty, patriotism and group unity, 4. good, responsible leadership, and 5. purity, pristine environments, perfectly proportioned people). Darwin and all... blah Blah Blah.
Haidt spends a whole book showing how every moral or ethical judgement we make is based on those genetically engrained mechanisms. But of course, some people are motivated by one or two more than the others, either due to genes or cultural focus. And some societies and subcultures teach us to control some of these impulses (or not). Say, American liberals teach their children to not be racist or nationalist, i.e. to combat any negative impulses toward those who just look a little foreign (mechanism 3). Or religious conservatives feel negatively about gay people because differences in peoples’ behavior trigger their anti-pathogen sense (mechanism 5) which was hard-wired primarily to protect their ancestors from people who behaved differently because they might be actually sick. Today’s right-wingers then exacerbate this inborn tendency through ever more explicit stories connecting LGBTQ people to feelings of disgust and fear. All fascinating stuff.
But here's the thing for fiction writers. All stories must have a problem to drive plot. I'm betting every genre relies primarily on one or maybe two of these mechanisms to drive its plots and the degree to which readers are motivated by that particular mechanism determines which genre they're likely to be most interested in. The boundaries between genres can be defined by how much a particular work uses a particular negative/positive response mechanism.
For example, stories with a lot of drama and romance tap into the negative feelings against harm and the converse desire for care (mechanism 1). Stories with a law-enforcement hero or disaster stories are based on the breakdown of order mechanism and the converse desire for order and legitimate authority (mechanism 4). Stories with big battles between groups, whether they're military or involving say orcs, work with mechanism 3. Stories about justice and societal drama work with mechanism 2. And then, horror and gothic primarily tap into mechanism 5. (Did you suspect I had a point?)
So, I think this is why I feel this reaction to horror and gothic genres and why I'm far from the first person to complain (google “horror ableism”) about the horror/gothic tropes that use disability and mental illness as the spur of emotion in horror/gothic genres. Really, which horror book or movie isn’t mainly based on the fascination with some monstrous human or monster? Just as readers get a rush out of the sense of threat from the other, the foreign or the disloyal in adventure stories using mechanism 3, readers of horror get a rush just from encountering what essentially horrifies and disgusts them in individual humans (mechanism 5).
This realization has helped me to better understand the underpinnings of why people read different kinds of stories, so maybe studying this book is a good thing, even though I wish this (zombie) trope would die, die, die. At the same time, I wonder if horror can get away from these tropes and still be the same genre. There are horror stories where the "person" who triggers the fear of contagion to drive the plot is truly a non-human monster or fantastically different enough that it clearly isn’t a medical condition. But if one were to say horror should never use body and mind differences as the spur, that would cut the genre by half or maybe more. On the other hand, fears of other races used to be considered standard and fair game for a lot of military and adventure stories. And our culture has largely managed to throw off that trope and make such manipulation of the fear of other nationalities and races an artistic taboo. So, it can be done.
I, for one, hope society moves away from the trope of spooky and creepy albino characters (Princess Bride anyone? I love that movie, except that part.), scary villains with weird speech, hunched backs and weird-looking eyes (across many genres), and mental differences (a lot of the horror and gothic novels and films).
I told a group of writers how upset I was about this trope and those few who made any reply said they love horror, precisely because of this type of characterization and that I’m oversensitive. Most people still don’t see disability being used as a villainous descriptor as a problem in storytelling. If people who look and sound like you aren’t regularly treated as creepy and villainous, you might have a hard time seeing why this trope would be disturbing.
I wonder how my fellow writers would feel if instead of being a developmentally delayed “madwoman,” Merricat was black and had a thick bayou accent and that was tinted to feel creepy and to account for why she had murdered her whole family. It may be hard to imagine because we don’t think of racial differences as spooky today, but there was a time not so long ago, when that trope was alive and well. I don’t mean to imply that black people have an advantage. Positive and genuine representation of black and brown people in fiction and movies remains inadequate. But when it comes to people with disabilities, it’s open season.
I don’t even have a disability anything like Merricat’s apparent symptoms. So, why do I care so much?
I’m irritated because this is far from the first time, and over time and repetition, that type of portrayal influences subconscious thinking patterns and social norms. Think of the squinted eyes of a villainous character which jitter and dart with no apparent reason, never making eye contact. Sound familiar? If you know me in person, that is how I look—other than the adjective “villainous” (I hope). I’d bet money that there are a few horror and gothic villains out there with characteristics like my eyes and that plays a role in why people get a general creepy vibe when they see someone like me.
It’s the effect on social ostracism of people with all types of disabilities that bothers me about this trope.
More broadly, we need to be aware of the primal fears that underlie our emotional responses both in entertainment and in social and political matters. Most progressives would acknowledge on some level that the antidote to the fear of foreignness and out-group threats is diversity. If we raise our children in a community where our friends and neighbors come in all colors, speak different languages and practice various faiths, then those children will no longer respond to people of other races, languages or religions with the primal fear of the foreign, because they will not be foreign. It is somewhat harder to do that with disability, partly because each disability is so different. It’s impossible for everyone to be wholly accustomed to every type of disability. But wider representation of people with various body and mind differences in our entertainment without making them out to be villains or objects of pity would be a start.