Race in Fantasy (+ Publishing News)

Race in Fantasy:

This is a topic that’s been nettling at for me for years now. I was never quite sure of the right venue to discuss it, but this seems as good a choice as any.

It occurred to me once that, while fantasy authors will generally go into great detail in describing everything about their characters’ appearances, they rarely if ever make any mention of the character’s race. And the reason for this is obvious: we all know they’re white.

I’m more of a fantasy fan than a science fiction fan, but one thing I always respected in sci-fi was its tradition–started by Star Trek and continued by many others–of portraying an ethnically diverse cross-section of humanity. The unspoken message is that, in the future, race doesn’t matter. Black, white, Asian, Hispanic, and all the others are all just thought of as human.

But sadly, fantasy isn’t like that. Sometimes it may pay lip service to the idea with it’s multiple non-human races, but that’s sort of undermined by the way they smack of Caucasian. When was the last time you encountered a black Elf? An Asian Dwarf?

Ironically, Warcraft–which even a fanboy like me will admit has a very basic and unsophisticated story most of the time–does a better job of this than most. If there’s one message the franchise has repeatedly hammered into the player, it’s that racism is bad (mmkay?), and the great diversity of their races allows them to do so with a reasonable degree of authenticity. Also, that they let you play as a variety of racial options as a human (and some other races) is nice, if hardly unusual in the video game world.

That’s not to say that fantasy never includes anything but white people, but their history with other races is spotty at best. In my experience, the most common non-white races to see in fantasy are Arabic and South Asian (probably because these would be the only ones likely to have been well-known to the medieval European societies fantasy tends to base itself on). But these are often portrayed as villains, or at least suspicious foreigners–a problem that all non-white races suffer in fantasy, honestly.

Blacks and Asians really get the short end of the stick in fantasy. I’ve been reading fantasy novels compulsively for the last ten years, and out of all that experience, I can only think of two high fantasy series in which black people were portrayed prominently, and both were pretty outside the norm of high fantasy. The first is Ian Irvine’s Three Worlds Cycle, which has featured many prominent and likable black characters, such as Tallia Bel Soon, who is described as having “skin the colour of chocolate” and is renowned for both her beauty and her skills as a fighter and sorceress. The other is Glen Cook’s Black Company books, which featured, among others, the black wizard One-Eye. He wasn’t portrayed in a very positive light, but neither was anyone else, so it’s safe to say that wasn’t a comment on his skin tone.

For Asians, the only examples I can think of off the top of my head are the samurai guy in Mickey Zucker Reichert’s Bifrost Guardians series, and the Nyeung Bao, also of the Black Company novels.

Hispanics suffer perhaps the worst of all. I can’t really think of any I’ve seen in fantasy.

(As an aside, I’ve always been confused when fantasy authors describe a character as “dark,” as there are a lot of ways to interpret that. To be fair, some of them could mean “black” or “South Asian” or “Hispanic,” but based on the rest of the genre, I tend to assume this means “dark hair with a tan.”)

One reason for the whiteness of fantasy is immediately obvious: the genre is mostly based on western European mythology, so it feels natural to have it mostly populated by western European-inspired people.

But is that the only reason? Is there some hidden and shameful streak of racism running through us fantasy authors? It has certainly become common to deviate from the traditions of the genre’s mythological roots in other ways, so why does this racial inequity continue to stand?

And perhaps the most important question of all is, is this okay? Is the fact that fantasy worlds are as white as Dempsters a harmless idiosyncrasy of the genre, or a grave injustice that sends the wrong message to non-white readers/viewers/players? Or is it somewhere in the middle?

And if it is a problem, what do we do about it? People have become so used to the Caucasian dominance in fantasy that a major break from that now might seem pretentious or preachy.

This is a major concern in my own writing, and a large part of the reason I haven’t broken free of the ethnic mold much. (This is also why I haven’t written any gay or lesbian characters yet, but that’s another topic.) In two of my novels (and, by extension, their subsequent sequels), I’ve tried to create distinct human ethnicities, but in one, the difference between the two was based on magic, and they were both completely white, and in the other, they were all, again, mostly various shades of white. The only major exception was a sort of quasi-Asian race with blue hair and pale skin.

I’m not proud of this, but again, any other races just end up standing out so much in a fantasy story that it just ends up feeling awkward and potentially preachy, and that’s no good. So what am I, as an author, to do?

If this same struggle is going on in all the other fantasy writers out there, then I can see why the Caucasian obsession persists.

If you were looking for me to make a point in this post, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. The fact is that I really don’t know how to feel about this issue or what can be done about it, or even if anything should be done about it.

I believe strongly in ethnic diversity, and I also believe that it should be depicted in the media, but it can’t be right to shoehorn a bunch of black people into a story just to make a point, can it?

I love fantasy, and I don’t want to view it as a cesspool of racism, but there are times that seems like the only logical conclusion.

If my thoughts seem to be all over the place, that’s because they are. I find this a very complex issue, and despite all my thought over it, I have come to no solid conclusions.

Please share your comments on this. I’m very eager to see what people think. Is the lack of racial diversity in fantasy a travesty, or a non-issue? If it is a problem, what should be done about it? If you know of any high fantasy works not mentioned here (in any medium) that have broken the racial mold, please mention them.

I know this has already been a terribly long post, but some other notes before I let you go…

Publishing News:

Sometime this week (I haven’t been able to find an exact date), Beckett Media’s Massive Online Gamer magazine will be releasing its issue #33, which includes an article on WoW patch 4.2 by yours truly. I encourage you all to pick it up and marvel at my wondrous insight into the effects this patch has had on the game. (:P)

Original Fiction: “The Running Man”

So I thought it was about time to offer up some of my fiction–some of my real fiction, not some silly fan fic I threw together for a writing contest. I’m rather cagey about my writing, and this does not come easily to me, but I’m always complaining that no one reads my stuff, so I might as well put my money where my mouth is and offer up something to the teeming hordes of the interwebz.

“The Running Man” is a very short little story I wrote when I was tinkering with the concept for my last/current novel, “The Touch of the Saints”–a novel I have currently given up on due to lack of motivation but hope to return to someday. It establishes one of my central characters, as well as the magic system of this universe, which I believe to be one of those very rare semi-original ideas I trip across.

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The Running Man

© 2011 by Tyler F.M. Edwards.

“Tell me a story, grandmother,” Fayn said, huddling by the warmth of the fireplace.

Night had fallen, and all was quiet but for the crackle of the fire and the sound of Fayn’s parents cleaning up after dinner. Soon, the family would retire, but Fayn was still restless.

Her grandmother chuckled, leaning back in a rocking chair and almost invisible beneath her many blankets. “Have you heard the tale of the Running Man?”

“No, grandmother. Tell me.”

Her grandmother closed her eyes. “Long ago, after the fall of the Demons but before the age of peace we enjoy today, there was a small kingdom across the Wolf’s Mouth. It was not a great or mighty kingdom, but in it lived many men and women with strong and pure hearts.

“Though the Demons were gone, that was still a time of violence and peril, and the ruler of this kingdom dispatched many people to patrol its northern borders, on the edge of the Broken Lands, to keep watch over the wicked men and beasts that dwelt there.

“One day, one such man saw a dark shape on the horizon. A chill ran down his back, and he watched as it grew, and grew, and grew some more.”

Fayn shivered.

“Soon, it become revealed as a great army of brigands in black armor. Conquest was on their minds, and murder was in their hearts. And they were headed straight for the kingdom.

“And so the man ran. He ran down the hills of the Broken Lands and into the forests of the south in the hopes of bringing warning to his people. He ran until he could run no more, until his body ached and screamed. He ran until he had nothing left to give, and still he was miles away from his own people, and still the army of brigands marched.”

Her grandmother paused, and Fayn shifted anxiously.

“What happened then?” she asked. Her grandmother rarely told her sad stories, and she didn’t want this to be one of them.

A ghost of a smile touched her grandmother’s wrinkled face.

“He reached down inside himself, and he found the core of strength that is in all good men. He prayed to the Saints, and they blessed him with their fervor. And he ran on.”

Fayn grinned.

“He ran day and night without rest. He ran through shadowed woods and across bright plains. He ran until his shoes shredded, and the ground tore at his feet. But with the Saints’ blessing upon him and the purity of purpose in his heart, he persevered. His feet withstood the sharp pebbles and hard earth, and his body survived the exhaustion and deprivation.

“When a mountain blocked his path, he ran around, moving so fast he lost no time by the change in course. When a lake or a river stood in his way, the Saints blessed his feet with the lightness to run upon the water.

“He ran for ten days and ten nights and went to three of the kingdom’s border keeps. In each, he stayed only long enough to deliver his warning before moving to the next.

“Three full weeks after the Running Man had first glimpsed it, the brigand army entered the kingdom. When it did, they met an army of defenders, pure of heart and filled with the light of the Saints, brought fourth by the Running Man’s warnings. A terrible battle was fought, and both forces suffered terribly, but at the end of the day, the brigands were beat back, and the defenders of the kingdom stood triumphant.”

Her grandmother paused, and it seemed the story had ended.

“But what happened to the Running Man?” Fayn asked. The vivid images of her grandmother’s tale burned in her mind, and she wanted to know more.

At that moment, her father’s voice came from the other end of the family home, telling her to prepare for sleep.

“A tale for another time, my dear,” Fayn’s grandmother said.

Fayn frowned, disappointed, but moved to obey her father. But even as she went to bed, she remained restless, still excited by her grandmother’s story.

* * *

The night was unusually cool for summer, and Fayn shivered as she crept through the darkness. She would be doing extra chores for a week if her parents realized she’d snuck out, but she was too restless to sleep, her grandmother’s tale still fresh in her mind.

She reached the pond at the edge of town. She took off her shoes and socks and stared at the glassy surface, steeling herself.

She knew that some people could do things that others couldn’t. Those with strong minds and the purity of the Saints in their hearts could go beyond the normal limitations of the human race. In less pious lands, they called it magic, she had been told. The Running Man must have been one of those people.

She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, focusing with all her might. She said a prayer to the Saints, beseeching them for this one blessing.

And then she ran.

A moment later, she was in the water, coughing and spluttering. Water plunged down her nose and burned her throat, and she swallowed several mouthfuls before she started to swim.

There would be no hiding her outing from her parents now. She was soaked to the skin. But she had no regrets.

She looked back at the bank, and saw she was further into the pond than a simple leap could have brought her. And she knew that, for just a moment, she had been running on the water. Just as the Running Man had.

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All comments and criticisms are welcomed so long as they are constructive.