Academic literature on the topic 'YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Science Fiction / Alien Contact'

This article suggests that Malinda Lo’s Adaptation duology (2012-2013) and Cindy Pon’s Want duology (2017-2019) represent empathy as a desirable answer to challenges of the Anthropocene. Set in near-future Taipei, Want follows a group of teenagers who eventually become militant environmental activists. The teenage protagonists’ capacity for empathy distinguishes them from the villainous antagonist and makes them likeable for the readers despite their violent tactics. Lo’s duology features two teenagers who are turned into human/alien hybrids by extra-terrestrial scientists after a nearly fatal car accident. The procedure equips the protagonists not only with an accelerated healing ability, but also gives them access to other people’s emotions through touch. Although the teenagers at first experience their newfound superpowers as a burden, they slowly realise their significant potential for changing humanity for the better. My article will combine close readings from the novels with research from ecopedagogy to explore in how far novels like Lo’s Adaptation and Pon’s Want can encourage readers to treat their fellow human beings as well as more-than-human life forms with more empathy.

Fanfiction has a long and varied history in the Star Wars franchise since it began in 1977 with the debut of the first film, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. The decade of the 1970s created new possibilities for science fiction multiverses and metanarratives; science fiction became an adaptive film genre that could be reimagined with seemingly infinite narrational results. The myriad of genre films that were released in the mid-to-late 1970s revealed dynamic syntheses with horror (e.g. Alien, Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Close Encounters of the Third Kind), franchises that previously had existed solely on television (Star Trek: The Motion Picture) and musical theatre (The Rocky Horror Picture Show). Cinematic audiences became increasingly accustomed to science fiction tropes and themes in film; audience participation in the theatre (e.g. The Rocky Horror Picture Show) expanded to print zines (often with fanfiction) for multiple franchises as well as fan conventions. Fanfiction’s beginnings as an analogue culture dramatically changed with the advent of the internet and the evolution of fandoms as digital cultures. Web-based platforms such as FanFiction.net and Archive of Our Own (AO3) host sundry fan communities’ creative outputs including podcasts, art and, most frequently, fanfiction stories. The release of Star Wars: The Force Awakens in 2015 immediately captured the fandom’s imagination; the animosity and tension between the new villain Kylo Ren (Ben Solo) and protagonist Rey of Jakku particularly fascinated the young adult fans who were lately converted to the Star Wars fandom due to this pairing (known as Reylo within the fandom and within cinematic circles). The newest generations of fans were acclimated to audience participation and paratextual interactions due to their positions as digital natives. The Reylo fan phenomenon particularly erupted into fanfictions as critical data artefacts, even predicting Reylo as a romantic pairing years before the second and third films in the franchise trilogy Star Wars: The Last Jedi and Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker. The Reylo pairing is just one example of how online Star Wars fanfiction communities expand audience participation to autonomous collective identity formation. This article examines feminist fanfictions in the Star Wars fandom as gendered critical data artefacts, as collaborative communities of practice, and as counterpublic discourses that apply feminist critiques to conventional gender roles within the most recent film trilogy and the fandom itself.

Aliens. Thematic issue of Granta: The Magazine of New Writing. 114 (Spring 2011) Granta is a quarterly magazine of new writing from both established and emerging writers; although aimed primarily at adult audiences, it could easily be considered as a journal with appeal to young adults particularly due to its diverse content and style, offering readers a greater scope of choice. Granta could often, I suspect, serve to pique the interest of older adolescents due in part to the periodical's contemporary approach to cover design, and its integration of visual art and poetry with prose, along with the obvious diversity and strength of the writing in general. An issue organized around the theme of 'Aliens' seems tailor-made to easily cross over from an adult to an adolescent audience. The black and silver cover with the hovering planet suggests science fiction; however, on closer look, the figures walking towards the planet wear suits and head coverings, and suggest displacement in earthly realms rather than within the final frontier. Indeed, most of the writings in this issue speak to feelings of alienation and alien environments. While stories are united by the emotional impacts of the characters’ strangeness in new environments, the works cover a broad scope; compare, for example, Chris Dennis’ fiction piece on a young drug addict facing life in prison, with Ann Patchett’s observations of a nun who taught her in childhood, who is now facing life outside the convent. The writing in this issue is strong, and at times, explicit in its sexuality and violence, although not gratuitously so. Librarians and teachers may feel some hesitation in subscribing to Granta for their students due to restrictions around students’ reading materials; this would be unfortunate, as such a publication provides students exposure to such important contemporary writers as Roberto Bolaño, Madeleine Thien, and Paul Theroux. Recommended: 2 out of 4 stars Reviewer: Allison SivakAllison Sivak is the Assessment Librarian at the University of Alberta Libraries. She is currently pursuing her PhD in Library and Information Studies and Elementary Education, focusing on how the aesthetics of information design influence young people’s trust in the credibility of information content.

While Young Adult dystopian texts commonly manipulate expectations of time and space, it is largely in a linear sense—projecting futuristic scenarios, shifting the contemporary reader into a speculative space sometimes only slightly removed from contemporary social, political, or environmental concerns (Booker 3; McDonough and Wagner 157). These concerns are projected into the future, having followed their natural trajectory and come to a dystopian present. Authors write words and worlds of warning in a postapocalyptic landscape, drawing from and confirming established dystopian tropes, and affirming the activist power of teenage protagonists in cultivating change. This article examines the intersections between dystopian Young Adult literature and Indigenous Futurisms, and the possibilities for sharing or encoding Indigenous Knowledge through the disruption or revision of genre, where the act itself become a movement of activism and survival echoed in text. Lynette James acknowledges the “ruptures” (157) Indigenous authors have made in the genre through incorporating Indigenous Knowledge into story as an embedded element – not only of narrative, but of structure. Ambelin Kwaymullina, of the Palyku people of the Pilbara region of Western Australia, exemplifies this approach in her disruption or rupture of the dystopian genre in her embodiment of Indigenous Knowledge in the Young Adult (YA) text The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Kwaymullina centres Indigenous Knowledge throughout the trilogy, offering a powerful revision of key tropes of the dystopian YA genre, creating a perspective that privileges Indigenous Knowledge. This is most significantly identified through her depiction of time as a non-linear concept, at once realised narratively, conceptually, and structurally in the text. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, the first of a trilogy of novels in “The Tribe” series, presents a futuristic post-apocalyptic world, set 300 years after the Reckoning, a cataclysmic environmental disaster. The protagonist, Ashala Wolf, is one of a number of people with supernatural abilities that are outlawed by their government and labelled Illegals. As the novel begins, Ashala is being interrogated by the villainous Neville Rose, held in a detention centre as she plots to escape, free her fellow detainees, and return to the Tribe in the Firstwood. The plot draws from historical and contemporary parallels in Australia, yet part of the text’s subversive power is that these parallels and connections are never made explicit on the page. The reader is invited to become an active participant in coding meaning by applying their own understandings of the context and connections, creating an inter-subjective dialogue between reader and text, and Indigenous and non-Indigenous knowing. This article looks to the first novel in the trilogy as the key exemplifier of the disruption of genre and knowledge through the representation of time. It is in this novel that these concepts are established and realised most clearly, being predominantly from Ashala’s perspective as a direct descendant of Indigenous Australians, with the following two novels divided between Ashala, Georgie, and Ember as polyphonic narrative focalisers. Acting as an introduction to the series, The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf presents a foundation for readers to challenge their perceptions on both genre and knowledge. Kwaymullina entangles the two, imbuing knowledge throughout narrative and structure which in turn disrupts genre. In her revisioning of narrative through genre and structural focus of time as a non-linear concept, Kwaymullina puts into practice Conrad Scott’s argument that “the potential healing of moments or processes of crisis in Indigenous dystopias is never possible without a strategic engagement with narrative itself, and even the formal aspects of the text” (73).While the series fits the conventions of the dystopian genre, it has been more commonly identified as speculative fiction, or Indigenous futurism, as Kwaymullina herself defines her work. James notes the significance of acknowledging a text as Indigenous futurism, writing, “identifying a work as Indigenous futurism rather than simply as YA dystopia asks readers, critics, and scholars to adjust their orientation in ways that may radically alter both their perception and reception of it” (153). For the purposes of this article, I acknowledge the clear value and importance of identifying the text as Indigenous futurism, but also find value in the movements that define the shift from dystopian literature to Indigenous futurism, in its engagement with and recasting of dystopian conventions in the text. In embedding Indigenous Knowledge in her worldbuilding and narrative, Kwaymullina actively rewrites dystopian expectations and tropes. These notions would be expected or normalised when grounded in Indigenous futurism, but are regarded as a subversion and revision when read in dystopian fiction. The text engages directly with the specific tropes and expectations of dystopian genre—its significance in rewriting the spaces, narratives, and structures of the genre cannot be overstated. The employment of the dystopian genre as both framework and space of revision speaks to larger debates of the value of dystopian fiction in examining socio-cultural issues over other genres such as realism. Critics argue the speculative nature of dystopian fiction that remains linked to concerns of the present and past allows audiences to envision and experience their own transformative experience, effecting political change (Kennon; Mallan; Basu, Broad, and Hintz; Sypnowich). Balaka Basu, Katherine Broad, and Carrie Hintz argue that serious issues presented in fantastic futuristic scenarios “may provide young people with an entry point into real-world problems, encouraging them to think about social and political issues in new ways, or even for the first time” (4-5). Kerry Mallan notes the “ability of dystopian fiction to open up to readers a dystopian social elsewhere serves a double function: On the one hand, it offers readers an opportunity to reflect on their current existence to compare the similarities and differences between the real and the fictional; on the other, these stories implicitly exhort young people to take responsibility for their own lives and the future of society” (16). Drawing on these metanarrative structures with the interweaving of Indigenous knowledge increases the active responsibility for the reader. It invokes Nnedi Okorafor’s labelling of Indigenous Futurisms as “the most truthful way of telling the truth” (279), creating opportunities for the Indigenous and non-Indigenous reader to engage with narratives of a real apocalypse on invaded land. The dystopian setting and expectations form a buffer between reader and text (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 4), making the narrative more accessible to the reader without shying away from the embedded trauma, while drawing on dystopian fiction’s balance of despair and optimism (Basu, Broad, and Hintz 2).The stakes and value of dystopian fiction are heightened when engaging with Indigenous narratives and knowledge; as Claire Coleman (a Noongar woman from the south coast of Western Australia) notes, Indigenous Australians live in a post-apocalyptic state as “all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people alive today are the descendants of people who survived an apocalypse” (n.p.). James, quoting Uppinder Mehan, concurs, writing “these narrators are ‘survivors—or the descendants of survivors’ [162], not just of broken dystopian worlds or post-cataclysmic events but of the real historical legacies of slavery, conquest, and oppression” (157). Writing on Indigenous futurisms in dystopian and utopian fiction, Mary Morrison argues “people outside Western hegemonic power structures would likely be well-placed to transform the utopian imagination, to decolonize it” (11), acknowledging the significance in the intersection of genre and lived experience by author and character.Kwaymullina expands on this, noting that for Indigenous authors the tropes of speculative fiction are familiar lived experiences. She writes thatmany of the ideas that populate speculative-fiction books – notions of time travel, astral projection, speaking the languages of animals or trees – are part of Indigenous cultures. One of the aspects of my own novels that is regularly interpreted as being pure fantasy, that of an ancient creation spirit who sung the world into being, is for me simply part of my reality. (“Edges” 27)Kwaymullina affirms Coleman and James in her approach, writing “Indigenous people lived through the end of the world, but we did not end. We survived by holding on to our cultures, our kin, and our sense of what was right in a world gone terribly wrong” (“Edges” 29). The Tribe series demonstrates survivance, with Kwaymullina’s approach forming possibilities for intersubjective dialogues across genre. The concept is reinforced through Ashala’s repeated, joyful cries of hope throughout the text: “I live! We live! We survive!” (197, 200, 279, 391).Sara K. Day, Miranda A. Green-Barteet, and Amy L. Montz note dystopian literature considers possible futures from the outlook and failures of the present (8), arguing “the label ‘dystopia’ typically applies to works that simultaneously imagine futures and consider the present, essentially occupying a liminal space between these times” (Day, Green-Barteet, and Montz 9). This sense of liminality is heightened with the engagement of time from an Indigenous perspective; as Scott writes, “Indigenous dystopian fiction presents not only the crisis of the future but the ongoing crisis of the present time, and that which is still resonant from the past” (73). In “Respect, Relationships, Renewal: Aboriginal Perspectives on the Worlds of Tomorrow”, Kwaymullina notes that linear time can “become a tool of ideology, with colonial characterisations of Indigenous peoples as being of an earlier (less ‘advanced’) time through the use of terms such as ‘primitive’, ‘prehistoric’ and ‘prehistory’” (“Respect” 126).In shifting to a dystopian world where Australia as a colonised or invaded country is no longer recognised, but Country is still alive and read by those who live on it, Kwaymullina recasts the use of linear time as a tool of ideology to reaffirm Coleman’s argument that Indigenous Australians already exist in a post-apocalyptic state. She draws from the past and present and casts it into the future, while simultaneously recognising that all three are linked and circular—events are repeating and being relived. Kwaymullina depicts numerous parallels between the dystopian world and a post-invasion Australia, populating her world with references to detention centres; othering and distinct labelling of a vilified minority deemed a threat or aberrant to the majority colonising community; the name and title of the series’ central villain Chief Administrator Neville Rose in a clear reference to A.O. Neville, WA Chief Protector of Aborigines.At the outset, the government uses labels to separate and denigrate the Other—individuals with Abilities are called Illegals, distinct from Citizens, although they can apply for Exemptions if their Ability is deemed useful and passive. The terminology of Exemption draws deliberate connections to the Exemption Certificate Indigenous Australians could apply for from the Aborigines Protection (Amendment) Act 1943. The text consistently operates in modes of survivance, as Ashala and the Tribe redefine their world through a distinctly Indigenous perspective (Murphy 179). Ashala gains power through the tool used to suppress her by claiming and embracing this status, identifying her friends and herself as the Tribe and choosing a forest name emblematic of the totems that each Tribe member has a particular connection to (e.g. Georgie Spider, Ember Crow, Ashala Wolf). Continual parallels are drawn to Indigenous Knowledge: Ashala’s Ability is Sleepwalking, where she enters a state in dreaming where she can alter reality, a liminal space that suggests connections to the Dreamtime. While the land is no longer called or recognised as Australia, and the tectonic plates have shifted land mass, it remains Country, as recognised in Ashala’s relationship with the Firstwood. The Balance, the inherent harmony between all life, animate and inanimate, is a clear reflection of an Indigenous understanding, positioning it as the mainstream ideology.Kwaymullina weaves Indigenous knowledge through the text as demonstrated through narrative, key thematic concepts, and structure, disrupting the tropes of dystopian fiction in a manner that subverts genre and presents new possibilities for both reader and writer while presenting a shift to Indigenous Futurisms. As an organic by-product of this ideological framework, regressive or gendered tropes are re-envisioned as feminist and ecologically centred, ultimately conveying a sense of hope and survivance. Key tropes of YA dystopian fiction include a female teenager protagonist oppressed by her government, often initially unknowingly so embedded is she in the system, potentially profiting from it in some way. She is often introduced to the reader in a setting that the character initially reads as utopian, but is revealed to be dystopian and authoritarian in its construction. As identified by Ann M.M. Childs, a common dynamic in the genre that reinforces gender roles in heterosexual relationships see the protagonist introduced to the concept of rebellion or dissent through a male love interest already embedded in a resistance movement, at the cost of losing or betraying a female friend (188). Childs notes the protagonist may be resistant to the idea of rebellion, but after falling for the love interest, grows to genuinely care for the cause. Technology is depicted as advanced, alien or dehumanising, and both belongs to and represents the repressive society the protagonist seeks to escape and change. The natural environment is depicted in binary opposition, with characters finding resilience, freedom, and personal agency in a return to nature (McDonough and Wagner 157). Society will have attempted to restrict, destroy, or otherwise mine the natural world, but this attempt for control will inevitably fail or backfire. Initially the environment is displayed as a potentially antagonistic element, wild and dangerous; however, after the character escapes their confining world, it becomes an ally. In her employment of a perspective framed by Indigenous Knowledge, Kwaymullina subverts each of these established tropes, offering an alternative reading of conventions often embedded in the genre. Ashala is introduced as already entrenched in a rebellion that she is both leader and pivotal figure of. Inverting the dynamic outlined by Childs, she is love interest Connor’s motivation for rejecting the government and joining the Tribe: “You are the reason I came here, Ashala Wolf” (Kwaymullina 263). Kwaymullina dismisses Childs’ concern over the removal of female friendship in favour of heterosexual romance by centering Ashala’s relationships with Georgie and Ember as fundamental to Ashala’s well-being, where sistahood is a key paradigm of hope: “I carry my friends with me” (Kwaymullina 39). For Ashala and the Tribe, nature as exemplified through the Firstwood is Country, not only sanctuary but an animate being that Ashala speaks with, asks permission to live within, and offers protection and apology for the harm down to it by humans in the past. The privileging of environment, and reading all animate or inanimate beings as living, extends to challenging the nature/technology dichotomy. Even the static or sterile environments of the detention centres are recognised for their connection to nature in their construction from recycled materials: “Nothing ever truly ends, only transforms” (Kwaymullina 141). In “Learning to Read the Signs: Law in an Indigenous Reality”, Ambelin Kwaymullina and Blaze Kwaymullina write thatsince everything must interconnect and interrelate to survive, if a pattern is fixed in time, it loses its ability to dynamically connect with other patterns. To be temporally fixed is therefore to be isolated; frozen. In an Indigenous worldview, it is, in fact, an impossibility – for that which cannot move, cannot interact, and that which cannot interact is inanimate. And there is nothing inanimate in country. (200)This can be read as representative of Kwaymullina’s rupture or revision of dystopian tropes and genre. When tropes are read as static or absolute, they run the risk of freezing or limiting the knowledge encoded in these stories. By integrating Indigenous Knowledge, new patterns can emerge and interact, extending to the reader’s own understanding of genre, time, and epistemology. Kwaymullina’s revisioning of dystopian tropes through an embedded and celebrated Indigenous perspective culminates in the successful thematic, narrative, and structural expression of time as a non-linear concept. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina acknowledge the division between the reductionist and linear perspective of time through a Western worldview in comparison to the non-linear perception from that of an Indigenous Australian worldview. They acknowledge that their expression of time is not to be read as representative of all Indigenous Australians’ perspective of time, but one informed by their own Country and upbringing. Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina write,in an Aboriginal worldview, time—to the extent that it exists at all—is neither linear nor absolute. There are patterns and systems of energy that create and transform, from the ageing process of the human body to the growth and decay of the broader universe. But these processes are not ‘measured’ or even framed in a strictly temporal sense, and certainly not in a linear sense. (199)This is enacted through the narrative structure of The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. The text is set across four days, yet spans years, shifting through narrative in a non-linear manner and reflecting the Indigenous understanding of time as a circular, evolving concept. These four days act as the containers for the text, as Kwaymullina distinguishes the departure from linear time for the uninitiated reader by including headings and subheadings in chapter titles, marked as “Day One”, “Day Two”, “Day Three”, and “Day Four”, before the final section, “The Escape”. Within these containers, themselves marked linearly, narrative ebbs and flows across time and space, taking Ashala away from the Detention Centre to different moments from her past, spanning years. These ‘flashbacks’ are not presented in a linear fashion; the text revisits and repeats key moments of Ashala’s life out of sequence, providing an immediate focus on these seemingly past moments. This is key in shaping the reader’s understanding of “the patterns and systems of energy that create and transform” (Kwaymullina and Kwaymullina 199)—as Ashala revisits or rediscovers memory through time, perceptions of character, motive, relationships, and key plot points are changed and transformed. Meaning is formed through this relationship of narrative and time in a manner not possible through a linear structure. Over the course of the novel, Ashala and the reader find she’s chosen to give herself false memories to protect the Tribe and complete a master plan to defeat Neville Rose. As such, as the novel begins the reader, aligned with Ashala as narrative focaliser, is positioned to read key points through a flawed perspective. Connor is presented as an enemy and betrayer of the Tribe, while Ashala denies her feelings towards him. The reader is aligned with Ashala’s perspective—she has already fallen in love with Connor, but neither she nor the reader knows it due to the displacement of knowledge through narrative structure and memory. This also speaks to identity formation in the text—Ashala is herself, and not herself until the novel reaches full circle, and she and the reader have experienced multiple points of time. As Ember explains, “it’s not about losing small pieces of information. This stuff shapes your entire understanding of reality” (Kwaymullina 167). If the reader revisits the text with this knowledge, they find further value in exploring the non-linear, circular narrative, finding subtext in characters’ interactions and decisions. The disruption in the non-linear narrative structure is twofold: to reflect the representation of time in an Indigenous epistemology, further rewriting the genre; and to create an intersubjective dialogue. As such, the narrative structure creates a space of invitation to the reader. Rather than positioning Ashala as embedded and aware of her status as a custodian of Indigenous knowledge, the text places her as ingrained in Indigenous epistemology, but unaware of it. In this way, the text effectively invites the reader in, mirroring Ashala’s journey of (re)discovery. The non-Indigenous reader enters the text alongside Ashala, with Indigenous knowledge embedded subtly throughout the text echoed in Kwaymullina’s engagement with dystopian tropes, and integrated Indigenous epistemology. By the time Ashala meets the Serpent, her Grandfather, and has her ancestry explained to her, the reader has already been immersed in Ashala’s own way of thinking, an inherently Indigenous one; for instance, throughout the text, she acknowledges the value and interconnectedness of all beings, human and non-human, animate and inanimate. The text leaves space for the reader to be active in their own construction of meaning and knowledge by never using the terms “Indigenous” or “Aboriginal”, themselves colonial inventions employed to control and label. Instead, the reader is encouraged to engage in the metatextual intersubjective dialogue introduced by Kwaymullina to acknowledge Indigenous epistemology—but by way of her approach, Kwaymullina further encourages the reader to “forget Aborigines” (Healy 219) by centring knowledge in its own right, rather than in direct opposition to Western epistemologies. That is, Kwaymullina disrupts Western perspectives framing of Indigenous knowledge as “other”, altering expectations of the norm as non-Indigenous. As Kwaymullina writes, to conceive of time in a non-linear way is at once a great gift and a great responsibility. The responsibility is that our individual actions matter powerfully, radiating out across relationships and affecting all that might be thought of in a linear sense as past, present and future. But the gift is that the passage of linear time has never moved us so far that we cannot take meaningful action to heal the wounds of colonialism. (“Respect” 126-127)In The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, Kwaymullina realises this gift and responsibility. By framing structural, conceptual, and narrative time through an Indigenous epistemology, Kwaymullina privileges Indigenous Knowledge and effectively subverts and revises the genre through the rupture of dystopian conventions. Possibilities of hope and healing emerge in the text’s construction of time and genre as spaces of growth and change are emphasised; like Ashala, the reader finds themselves at the end and beginning of the world at once.ReferencesBasu, Balaka, Katherine R. Broad, and Carrie Hintz, eds. Contemporary Dystopian Fiction for Young Adults: Brave New Teenagers. New York: Routledge, 2013. Booker, M. Keith. Dystopian Literature: A Theory and Research Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood P, 1994. Bradford, Clare, et al. New World Orders in Children’s Literature: Utopian Transformations. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Childs, Ann M.M. “The Incompatibility of Female Friendships and Rebellion.” Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Eds. Sara K. Day et al. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. 187-201.Coleman, Claire G. “Apocalypses Are More than the Stuff of Fiction — First Nations Australians Survived One.” ABC News 8 Dec. 2017. 30 Sep. 2019 <https://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-12-08/first-nations-australians-survived-an-apocalypse-says-author/9224026>.Day, Sara K., Miranda A. Green-Barteet, and Amy L. Montz, eds. Female Rebellion in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction. Farnham: Taylor & Francis, 2014. Green-Barteet, Miranda A., and Meghan Gilbert-Hickey. “Black and Brown Boys in Young Adult Dystopias: Racialized Docility in ‘The Hunger Games Trilogy’ and ‘The Lunar Chronicles Feather Journal.’” Red Feather Journal 8.2 (2017). 30 Sep. 2019 <https://www.redfeatherjournal.org/volume-8-issue-2.html>.Harris, Anita. Future Girl: Young Women in the Twenty-First Century. New York: Routledge, 2004. Healy, Chris. Forgetting Aborigines. Sydney: U of NSW P, 2008.Hintz, Carrie, and Elaine Ostry, eds. Utopian and Dystopian Writing for Children and Young Adults. New York: Routledge, 2003.James, Lynette. “Children of Change, Not Doom: Indigenous Futurist Heroines in YA.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.9>.Kennon, Patricia. “‘Belonging’ in Young Adult Dystopian Fiction: New Communities Created by Children.” Papers: Explorations into Children's Literature 15.2 (2005). 28 Sep. 2019 <http://www.paperschildlit.com/pdfs/Papers_2005_v15no2_p40.pdf>.Kwaymullina, Ambelin. The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf. Newtown: Walker Books Australia, 2012.———. “Edges, Centres and Futures: Reflections on Being an Indigenous Speculative-Fiction Writer.” Kill Your Darlings 18 (2014): 22-33.———. “Respect, Relationships, Renewal: Aboriginal Perspectives on the Worlds of Tomorrow.” Westerly 64.1 (2019): 121-134. 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U of California, 2017.Murphy, Graham J. “For Love of Country: Apocalyptic Survivance in Ambelin Kwaymullina’s Tribe Series.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.10>.Okorafor, Nnedi. “Organic Fantasy.” African Identities 7.2 (2009). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1080/14725840902808967>.Scott, Conrad. “(Indigenous) Place and Time as Formal Strategy: Healing Immanent Crisis in the Dystopias of Eden Robinson and Richard Van Camp.” Extrapolation: A Journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy 57.1-2 (2016). 20 Sep. 2019 <https://online.liverpooluniversitypress.co.uk/doi/pdf/10.3828/extr.2016.6>.Sypnowich, Christine. “Lessons from Dystopia: Critique, Hope and Political Education.” Journal of Philosophy of Education 52.4 (2018). 22 Sep. 2019 <https://doi.org/10.1111/1467-9752.12328>.

As a genre, science fiction deals with possible futures, imagining places and technologies that typically do not exist in audiences’ own lives. Science fiction film takes this directive a step further by creating visual representations of these futures and possibilities, presenting audiences with imagined ideas of what new technologies or unfamiliar places might look like. Thus, although any science fiction text can describe sociocultural and technological futures, science fiction film goes a step further by providing images that viewers do not have to envision for themselves. This difference can enable science fiction films to deliver even more incisive stories and commentaries on futuristic technologies as “sociotechnical assemblages” (Gillespie 18) – that is, as machines whose possibilities stem from humans’ interactions with them as much as from the technologies themselves.Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra maintain that today’s society is already interested in a real-world version of sociotechnologies: they call this interest the “prosthetic impulse” (4). For Smith and Morra, the prosthetic impulse can denote either “ways that the body and technology come into contact with one another” (4) or else any exploration of boundaries between technoculture and “the body, its histories, and its mutability” (6). However, Smith and Morra also warn that the prosthetic impulse often creates unreasonable expectations of what technology can accomplish: a prosthetic can “assume an epic status that is out of proportion with its abilities to fulfill our ambitions for it” (Smith and Morra 2), and the drive to “enhance” human bodies’ capabilities can signify beliefs that abled bodies are the standard, desirable norm (S. Smith).Science fiction films in turn often pick up on real-world ideas such as Smith and Morra’s prosthetic impulse as new ways of visualizing possible futures. Knowledgeable fans could undoubtedly list several examples of prosthetics in favorite sci-fi movies, including those donned by Star Wars’ Luke Skywalker, Star Trek’s Borg collective, Mad Max: Fury Road’s Imperator Furiosa, and many more. However, these films can also heighten the prosthetic’s immoderately “epic status” (Smith and Morra 2) and result in “our fantasies for technological possibility [being] played out across depictions of impairment” (Hung par. 10). In science fiction film, then, the prosthetic impulse can strongly reinforce problematic assumptions about what human beings “need” to have added, augmented, or replaced in order to function according to subjective norms.Steven Spielberg’s 2001 film A.I. Artificial Intelligence, though, expands the implications of the prosthetic impulse even further by broadening the types of bodies, losses, and functions that we imagine prosthetics can address. Set in a dystopian future where human-driven climate change has decimated the environment, world governments have instituted mandatory birth control, and socioeconomic stratification has skyrocketed, A.I. Artificial Intelligence speaks directly to Vivian Carol Sobchack’s 2006 concern that “theoretical use of the prosthetic metaphor tends to transfer agency [from] human actors to human artifacts” (23), though it does so in a novel way.The film’s human characters, or “human actors” to use Sobchack’s term, expend their creativity and resources not to address the issues of environmental catastrophe, starvation, and class warfare that humans themselves have created: instead, they turn to manufacturing advanced robots, or “mechas”, that are literally “human artifacts” (Sobchack 23) created to help humanity avoid the debilitating consequences of its own destructive actions. As a result, the film’s mecha characters, seen most clearly in the “child-substitute mecha” David and the mecha prostitute Gigolo Joe, are positioned as prosthetic humans intended to fill social roles and functions that human beings themselves are incapable of fully satisfying.The Prosthetic HumanEven though it offers a new angle to this concept, A.I. Artificial Intelligence is hardly the only science fiction film concerned with some configuration of the prosthetic impulse. In fact, several other science fiction films incorporate one of three other versions, each building up to more and more complex possibilities before we reach the prosthetic human as envisioned in A.I.The first – and arguably most common – treatment of the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film is found in the partial prosthetic, where technology is depicted as replacing or repairing one visible part of the perceptible bodily whole. Common versions of the partial prosthetic include replacements for limbs or even certain organs, with examples such as Luke Skywalker’s prosthetic hand in Star Wars, the techno-organic Borg collective in Star Trek: The Next Generation, Bucky Barnes’s metal arm in Captain America: The Winter Soldier and other Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) films, and Furiosa’s metal arm in Mad Max: Fury Road. The partial prosthetic in science fiction film is the most analogous to real-world prosthetics, despite problematic conflations created by this comparison (S. Smith), and the partial prosthetic is also the one that Mailee Hung is describing when she maintains that in science fiction film “it is technological, or even technophilic, fantasy that is being explored rather than the spectrum of human ability” (par. 11).A second treatment of the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film is visible in the full-body prosthetic, which denotes a technology that completely encloses or envelops the human body. Anne McCaffrey offers an early example of this type with her “Ship Who Sang” series (1961–1969), where “brainships” are created when children with severe physical disabilities but above-average brains can be rescued from euthanasia by having their minds linked with spaceships. Thankfully, later science fiction narratives tend to avoid most of the eugenicist and ableist overtones plaguing McCaffrey’s work. Science fiction films also offer examples of full-body prosthetics that can be departed or disengaged from at will, and these prosthetics may be used to enhance an abled body rather than housing a disabled one. Examples of full-body prosthetics in science fiction film include the boxing robots of Real Steel (2011), the Jaegers of Pacific Rim (2013) and Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), the genetically-engineered alien bodies operated by remote human pilots in James Cameron’s Avatar (2009), and the police robot MOOSE in Chappie (2015), among others. In these cases, the full-body prosthetic is a technological entity that must be interfaced with by a human consciousness – and sometimes the whole human body – in order to perform some function that the human body alone cannot accomplish.A third way of depicting the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film can be found in what Victor Grech calls Pinocchio Syndrome, or a “reverse prosthetic impulse” (265). Here technological, non-human characters “desire to become human” (Grech 263) and often attempt to gain humanity in the form of a human body, “its histories, and its mutability” (Smith and Morra 6) that will replace their own mechanical components. Examples of this third type include Data of Star Trek: The Next Generation (1987–1994 television, 1994–2002 films) and NDR-113/Andrew of the novelette “Bicentennial Man” (1967), the novel Positronic Man (1992), and the film Bicentennial Man (1999). Data is an android, and Andrew is a service robot, who both explore what it would mean to “be” human and actively pursue different means of achieving humanness – Data through human emotions and NDR-113/Andrew through a fully human body.All three of these science fiction versions – the partial prosthetic, the full prosthetic, and the reverse prosthetic impulse or Pinocchio Syndrome – tend to reinforce Smith and Morra’s warning that the prosthetic, both as an aid and as a technology, can “assume an epic status that is out of proportion with its abilities to fulfill our ambitions for it” (2). Put differently, just because these technologies exist within the films’ storyworlds does not mean that they can fix the characters’ or even the worlds’ problems, and the plots of many science fiction films actually stem from these assumptions.Of these three versions, Grech’s “reverse prosthetic impulse” (265) might initially seem the most applicable to A.I. Artificial Intelligence, particularly because most of the film follows David’s quest to find the Blue Fairy of the Pinocchio tale and petition her to make him “a real boy” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). However, even Grech’s term does not fully cover what Spielberg’s film is attempting through its characters and its setting. Unlike robot characters who embody Grech’s reverse prosthetic impulse, David is not attempting to “become” human: instead, he articulates his struggle as the desire to “become real”, which prioritizes not humanness via a human body but instead David’s self-perceived ability to better fulfill a particular role within a nuclear family. Moreover, unlike the ways in which Data and NDR-113/Andrew fulfill primarily career-adjacent roles in their respective storyworlds – Data as a ship’s officer, NDR-113/Andrew initially as a caretaker and butler – A.I. Artificial Intelligence depicts a world in which mechas are both an “essential” form of labor in a decimated global economy, but can also be constructed to fill specifically social roles such as child or lover. Where robots like Data and NDR-113/Andrew enact a reverse prosthetic impulse in their yearning to “become” human (Grech 263), thus treating humanness and the human body as prosthetics to technology, David as a “child-substitute mecha” and Gigolo Joe as a “lover robot” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) are more like prosthetic humans.In A.I. Artificial Intelligence, humans attempt to replace, enhance, or augment specific interpersonal relationships using “human artifacts” that function like Sobchack’s “human actors” – only, better than those human actors ever could be. David is continually described as a child who demonstrates unconditional love but never loses his temper, catches ill, or grows older; Gigolo Joe describes mecha prostitutes like himself as “the guiltless pleasures of the lonely human being” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) and promises that they will never get pregnant, clingy, or tired of sex. Because David is a “toy boy” and Gigolo Joe is a “boy toy” (Sobchack 2) – both meant to enhance different types of human relationships without the inconveniences that a human actor would bring into the picture – A.I. Artificial Intelligence is also imagining sociocultural structures like the nuclear family or the heterosexual romantic relationship as the wholes, the social bodies, that the prosthetic human will supposedly repair. Here the prosthetic impulse becomes human beings’ drive to use reparative technologies to replace other human beings entirely, rather than simply parts or functions of the human body.David as Prosthetic HumanDavid’s role as a prosthetic human meant to repair or augment human relationships is made clear even before the character himself first appears onscreen. Instead, the film’s initial scene follows Professor Allen Hobby, the scientist who leads the team that later creates David, as he pitches a new mecha of “a qualitatively different order” to a skeptical audience (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Hobby contends that his new robot will be capable of love “like a child for its parents” instead of the “sensuality simulators” already available (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), and moreover, that this kind of love “will be the key by which they [mechas] acquire a kind of sub-consciousness never before achieved. An inner world of metaphor, of intuition, of self-motivated reasoning, of dreams” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). However, these plans are quickly challenged by a female scientist who poses a moral question: “Isn’t the real conundrum [whether] you can get a human to love them back?” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Hobby then cycles through three responses to his peer’s question, all of which point to the ways in which David is positioned as a prosthetic human.First, Hobby stresses that this new mecha will be “a perfect child caught in a freeze-frame: always loving, never ill, never changing” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). His claim implies that families want or need a perfect child, and also that childhood perfection entails unwavering physical health, a permanently positive attitude, and unshakeable devotion to the parent(s) – all features that a real human child, as Sobchack’s “human actor”, cannot provide. Then too, Hobby’s claim that David is a child caught in “freeze-frame” perfection also hints that, as a form of technology, a prosthetic human supersedes many of a biological human’s limitations: just moments later, for example, the film’s audience learns that David’s adoptive family the Swintons have a young son, Martin, who has been placed in a cryogenic chamber until his terminal illness can be treated. For David, being “caught in a freeze-frame” of eternal and “perfect” childhood is beneficial to the Swintons, who will then experience his love and participation in their family unit forever – unlike Martin, who when similarly “frozen” cannot express or reciprocate familial affection at all, and so has been superseded by David.Hobby’s second response to the female scientist’s moral question is to assert that David, as a “child-substitute mecha” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), will answer both a market need and a human one: because world governments issue a limited number of pregnancy licenses, Hobby argues, mechas like David may become many families’ only way of having children. Here, the family unit is imagined as incomplete without offspring, to the extent that there is a species-wide “human need” for children (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) even though global catastrophes such as climate change and mass starvation are unavoidable threats to real children’s future welfare. To this end, Hobby positions a “child-substitute mecha” like David as a prosthetic for the family unit, filling in for children without taking up any of the resources needed to raise an actual member of the population who will then face and inherit unfixable global issues. Moreover, toward the end of A.I. audiences also learn that David was created to look like Hobby’s own dead son, meaning that this entire line of child-substitute mechas has stemmed from Hobby’s own grief – and perhaps his need of a prosthetic to repair it.Finally, Hobby’s last response to his peer’s challenge is to ask: “In the beginning, didn’t God create Adam to love him?” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). This rhetorical question reiterates how Hobby built David, reminding Hobby’s challenger – and by extension the film’s audience – that human actors are technology’s creators. The question’s rhetorical nature also implies that a creator’s status translates to their right to use such created technologies however they choose – regardless of the potential harm to either the prosthetic human or the "real" humans around them.Thus, although most of A.I. Artificial Intelligence does follow David’s journey to become “real”, it is important to realize that this quest actually stems from his being a prosthetic human rather than just Pinocchio Syndrome or a “reverse prosthetic impulse” (Grech 265). The very features of unconditional love, eternal innocence, and unchanging health that initially made David so attractive to the grieving Swintons are the same attributes that later lead to the family’s hostility when Martin does recover, and David is eventually abandoned in the woods – the prosthetic human child ousted for the “real” human child he was intended to replace. David’s longing to become “a real boy” so that Monica Swinton will return his love and welcome him home stems from his realization that he was always just a “technological substitution” (Hung par. 9) for Martin, and because of this, David’s desire to “become real” is better understood as him seeking to become a true part of the whole nuclear family instead of remaining a replacement or attachment to it. Rather than just “desire to become human” (Grech 263), David seeks to move from being a “human artifact” to becoming a “human actor” (Sobchack 23).Gigolo Joe as Prosthetic HumanWhile Gigolo Joe also serves as a prosthetic human in A.I. Artificial Intelligence, he does so in different ways than David. As a “child-substitute mecha”, David was created for intentionally prosthetic ends: even though he “can never be anything more than an approximate substitute” (Rosenbaum 74), he was still made specifically to repair or complete family units like the Swintons, rendering them “whole” by taking the place of an unavailable human child. As a mecha prostitute, though, Gigolo Joe was not created with prosthetic ends in mind: he was made to augment or supplement sexual experiences on a temporary basis, not to replace a long-term human partner or to make a sexual or romantic relationship whole by his presence within it. Also in obvious contrast to David, Gigolo Joe addresses sexual appetite rather than a need for filial love, provides short-term pleasure instead of a long-term connection, and is never intended to be seen by the film’s human characters as a human man instead of a male-shaped mecha. These are crucial differences between the two mechas’ purposes, functions, and target audiences, and Sobchack sums up this disparity by describing David and Gigolo Joe as two different types of “love machines” that remain “[s]uspended between an ironic Kubrickian critique of technological man and his Spielbergian redemption” (12–13).However, these differences between David and Gigolo Joe also translate into their being different kinds of prosthetic human. Where David was created to be a prosthetic human in the context of a childless family, replacing a needed member in order to make that family whole, Gigolo Joe takes the initiative to position himself as a prosthetic human, substituting the technology of his mecha body for the various physiological and/or emotional shortcomings of absent human sexual partners. Then too, where David rejects and attempts to outstrip his status as a “technological substitution” (Hung par. 9) for a human being, Gigolo Joe seems to exult in his part as substitute for human being.Audiences are shown this difference immediately. Where David is introduced through descriptions by Hobby, the scientist who created him and knows exactly what he wants David to accomplish, Gigolo Joe is introduced in person, alongside a nervous young woman who has apparently solicited him for sex. This unnamed woman admits that she has never had sex with a mecha before, and Gigolo Joe quickly discovers bruises from physical abuse by a human partner. In implied contrast to this unseen human partner, Gigolo Joe remains quiet, respectful, and gentle as he navigates the young woman’s communication of her fears and desires: he also assures her first that “once you’ve had a lover robot, you’ll never want a real man again” and then that “you are a goddess ... [and] you deserve much better in your life. You deserve me” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Both implicitly and explicitly, then, Gigolo Joe promises to provide his client with sexual and pseudo-romantic fulfillment: Sobchack frames this appeal as Gigolo Joe's ability to "satisfy every female sexual need and desire (including the illusion of romance) without wearing out” (5). But Gigolo Joe can only accomplish all of this because he is a perceptible, self-aware substitution for a human man – and a substitution that does not replicate the intentions and behaviors of his clients' "real" human partners.Gigolo Joe returns frequently to this idea that substitution is positive. Later, for instance, he explains to several fascinated teenage boys that mecha prostitutes “are the guiltless pleasures of the lonely human being. You’re not going to get us pregnant or have us to supper with Mommy and Daddy” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), emphasizing that humans do not need to fulfill any social obligations toward mechas precisely because they are not “real” lovers. Gigolo Joe also pitches mecha sex workers by reminding his listeners that “We work under you, we work on you, and we work for you. Man made us better at what we do than was ever humanly possible” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), suggesting that a substitute sexual partner will offer technological advantages over their human counterparts.Through dialogues and exchanges such as these, Gigolo Joe positions himself as a prosthetic human, acknowledging that he and his sex worker peers were not really meant to “repair” or “complete” human relationships even as he also maintains that mechas do replace human partners in important ways, even if temporarily. However, Gigolo Joe also recognizes the realities of being a prosthetic human in ways that David seems incapable of. For instance, when one of his clients is murdered by her human partner for seeking a replacement lover, Gigolo Joe realizes immediately that the man won’t even be suspected while Gigolo Joe himself automatically takes the blame. Similarly, Gigolo Joe is the one who can tell David that Monica Swinton “loves what you do for her, as my customers love what it is I do for them. But she does not love you. . . You were designed and built specific like the rest of us” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). David rejects this warning, demonstrating that his creation as a prosthetic human has made him impervious to that same reality, but Gigolo Joe’s positioning himself as a prosthetic human has made him aware that being “designed and built specific” to meet humans’ needs does not negate the dangers that come along with a designed, perfected form of substitution.Prosthetic Humans and the End of HumanityThe ending of AI: Artificial Intelligence has baffled critics and audiences alike since its theatrical release. Are the alien-like Specialists real, or does David imagine these beings as a means of explaining away Hobby’s entire line of child-substitute mechas? Does David actually see Monica again, or is this the robotic equivalent of a comforting dream before he dies? Frances Flannery-Dailey outlines nine possible ways of understanding how the film ends before noting that its ambiguity and length often frustrate audiences, leaving them with a negative impression of the film.No matter which way we try to explain the ending of A.I. Artificial Intelligence, though, it is worth noting the presence of the Specialists, who claim that they are advanced beings that evolved from mechas following humanity’s extinction. Though Flannery-Daily correctly questions whether the Specialists actually exist or else are just dream-specters of David's “death”, their presence at the end of the film suggests at least the possibility of a distant future in which the prosthetic human has completely overtaken and supplanted the “real” humans that David so wanted to join. This potential ending, as well as David’s and Gigolo Joe’s poor treatment by "real" humans throughout the film, all demonstrate that the prosthetic humans in A.I. Artificial Intelligence suffer from more than the “epic status” that Smith and Morra assign to real-world prosthetics (2), or even the shortcomings visible in other versions of the prosthetic impulse as depicted in science fiction films. Instead, A.I. Artificial Intelligence becomes bleak when we realize that these prosthetic humans actually function very well, even when (wrongly) touted as miracle technologies (Smith and Morra 2), and that instead it is humans, their needs, and their visions that have fallen sadly short. Both David and Gigolo Joe do exactly what they were "designed and built specific” to do (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) and more, yet humanity has destroyed both them and itself by the end of the film regardless.ReferencesA.I. Artificial Intelligence. Dir. Steven Spielberg. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2001. Flannery-Dailey, Frances. "Robot Heavens and Robot Dreams: Ultimate Reality in A.I. and Other Recent Films." Journal of Religion & Film 7.2 (2016). 1 July 2019 <https://digitalcommons.unomaha.edu/jrf/vol7/iss2/7>.Gillespie, Tarleton. Custodians of the Internet: Platforms, Content Moderation, and the Hidden Decisions That Shape Social Media. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018.Grech, Victor. "The Pinocchio Syndrome and the Prosthetic Impulse." Intelligence Unbound: The Future of Uploaded and Machine Minds. Eds. Russel Blackford and Damien Broderick. Malden: Wiley Blackwell, 2014. 263–278.Hung, Mailee. “We Are More than Our Machines.” Bitch Media (24 Aug. 2017). 2 July 2019 <https://www.bitchmedia.org/article/more-our-machines/aesthetics-and-prosthetics-science-fiction>.Rosenbaum, Jonathan. "A Matter of Life and Death: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (Directed by Steven Spielberg)." Film Quarterly 65.3 (2012): 74-78.Smith, Susan. "‘Limbitless Solutions’: The Prosthetic Arm, Iron Man and the Science Fiction of Technoscience." Medical Humanities 42.4 (2016): 259–264.Smith, Marquard, and Joanne Morra. “Introduction.” The Prosthetic Impulse: From a Posthuman Present to a Biocultural Future. Eds. Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006. 1–15. Sobchack, Vivian. “A Leg to Stand On: Prosthetics, Metaphor, and Materiality.” The Prosthetic Impulse: From a Posthuman Present to a Biocultural Future. Eds. Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2006. 17–42.Sobchack, Vivian Carol. "Love Machines: Boy Toys, Toy Boys and the Oxymorons of A.I.: Artificial Intelligence." Science Fiction Film and Television 1.1 (2009): 1–13.

News and Announcements1) Canadian Children's Book News, Spring 2015 IssueIn recognition of the TD Canadian Children's Book Week and its theme "Hear Our Stories: Celebrating First Nations, Métis and Inuit Literature," this issue explores several facets of this vibrant part of children's literature. It includes a profile of author David Alexander Robertson and a look at the publishers and market for First Nations, Métis, and Inuit stories.2) TD Canadian Children's Book Week (May 2- May 9, 2015) is the single most important national event celebrating Canadian children’s books and the importance of reading. More than 28,000 children, teens, and adults participate in activities held in every province and territory across the country. Hundreds of schools, public libraries, bookstores, and community centres host events as part of this major literary festival. It is organized by the Canadian Children’s Book Centre, in partnership with the Storytellers of Canada/Conteurs du Canada.3) Free Comic Book Day (May 2, 2015) takes place annually on the first Saturday in May. It is a single day when participating comic book specialty shops and public libraries across North America and around the world give away comic books absolutely free to anyone who comes into their shops! For more information: http://www.freecomicbookday.com/Home/1/1/27/9924) Canadian Authors for Indies Day (May 2, 2015)Authors across Canada support independent bookstores by volunteering as guest book sellers. To see who may be in your local indie book store, go to http://www.authorsforindies.com/5) Storytellers of Canada/Conteurs du Canada conference: Where Languages Meet (July 2-5, 2015). This year’s conference is in Lévis, Quebec where a rich storytelling tradition awaits. La Maison Natale Louis Fréchette – birthplace of one of Quebec’s most celebrated poets – hosts the SC-CC conference which proudly brings a range of vibrant programming in both official languages storytellers and listeners. http://www.storytellers-conteurs.ca/en/conference/storytellers-conference-2015.html6) Words in 3 Dimensions Conference 2015: Intersections (May 22 to 24, 2015)Held at the Chateau Lacombe Hotel in Edmonton for this second edition, the conference connects writers, editors, publishers, and agents from across Canada. This weekend focuses on how and where a writer’s work with words intersects with other disciplines. http://www.wordsin3d.com/7) The 2015 Storytelling World Resource Awards (storytellingworld.com/2015/) includes the following Canadian titles :Stories for Pre-Adolescent Listeners: Not My Girl: the True Sotry of a Daughter's Cultural Adjustmentsby Christy Jordan-Fenton and Margaret Pokiak-Fenton (Annick Press)Stories for Adolescent Listeners: Hope Springs: a Story of Complassion and understanding by Eric Walters (Tundra Books)8) IBBY Canada (International Board on Books for Young People, Canadian section). Stop, Thief!, illustrated by Pierre Pratt and written by Heather Tekavec (Kids Can Press, 2014), is the winner of the Elizabeth Mrazik-Cleaver Canadian Picture Book Award. Pierre was also nominated [again] by IBBY Canada for the prestigious Hans Christian Andersen Award.” www.ibby-canada.org/elizabeth-mrazik-cleaver-pratt/And now, a plethora of shortlist announcements:1) The 2015 Alberta Literary Awards ShortlistWinners will be announced and awards presented at the Alberta Literary Awards Gala on Saturday, May 23, 2015. The celebration will take place at the Chateau Lacombe Hotel (10111 Bellamy Hill Road) in Edmonton alongside the 2015 Words in 3 Dimensions Conference: Intersections (see above).A full list of award categories and nominees can be found at http://writersguild.ca/2015-alberta-literary-awards-shortlist/2) R. Ross Annett Award for Children's Literature (www.bookcentre.ca/awards/r_ross_annett_award_childrens_literature) Victor Lethbridge– You're Just Right (Tatanka Books)Leanne Shirtliffe– The Change Your Name Store (Sky Pony Press)Richard Van Camp– Little You (Orca Book Publishers) 3) 2014 Science in Society Book Awards Shortlists. Two annual book awards honour outstanding contributions to science writing. One is for books intended for children ages 8-12; the other for book aimed at the general public. Winners will be announced on Canada Book Day, April 23, 2015. http://sciencewriters.ca/awards/book-awards/Zoobots by Helaine Becker, Kids Can Press.Starting from Scratch by Sarah Elton, Owl Kids Books.It’s Catching by Jennifer Gardy, Owl Kids Books.The Fly by Elise Gravel, Penguin Random House.If by David J. Smith, Kids Can Press.4) 2015 Atlantic Book Awards ShortlistThe full shortlist for the eight different book prizes comprising the 2015 Atlantic Book Awards can be found www.atlanticbookawards.ca. Below are the nominees for the Ann Connor Brimer Award for Children’s Literature and the Lillian Shepherd Award for Excellence in Illustration. Winners will be announced Thursday, May 14, 2015.Ann Connor Brimer Award for Children’s LiteratureJack, the King of Ashes by Andy Jones (Running Goat Books & Broadsides)Flame and Ashes: The Great Fire Diary of Triffie Winsor (Dear Canada series) by Janet McNaughton (Scholastic Canada Ltd.)The End of the Line by Sharon E. McKay (Annick Press Ltd.)Lillian Sheperd Award for Excellence in IllustrationSydney Smith (nominee) Music is for Everyone by Jill Barber (Nimbus Publishing)Michael Pittman (nominee) Wow Wow and Haw Haw by George Murray(Breakwater Books)Nancy Rose (nominee) The Secret Life of Squirrels by Nancy Rose (Penguin Canada)5) Newfoundland and Labrador Book Award shortlist.During even-numbered years, these awards honour fiction and children’s/young adult fiction books; odd-numbered years recognise poetry and non-fiction. The winners will be announced May 27, 2015. This year’s list of finalists for the Newfoundland and Labrador Non-fiction Award are all first-time authors (http://wanl.ca/literary_awards)Alan Doyle for Where I Belong: From Small Town to Great Big Sea (Doubleday Canada)Janet Merlo for No One to Tell: Breaking My Silence on Life in the RCMP (Breakwater Books)Andrew Peacock for Creatures of the Rock (Doubleday Canada)Three acclaimed Newfoundland poets are shortlisted for the E.J. Pratt Poetry Award:Michael Crummey for Under the Keel(House of Anansi Press)Mary Dalton for Hooking (Véhicule Press)Carmelita McGrath for Escape Velocity (Goose Lane Editions)6) 2015 Information Book Award Shortlist announced by the Children’s Literature Roundtables of Canada. Voting Deadline: Saturday October 31, 2015.Any Questions? by Marie-Louise Gay.(Groundwood Books). A Brush Full of Colour: The World of Ted Harrison. by Margriet Ruurs & Katherine Gibson (Pajama Press).Do You Know Komodo Dragons? by Alain M. Bergeron, Michel Quintin, and Sampar. Illustrations by Sampar. Translated by Solange Messier (Fitzhenry & Whiteside).Dreaming in Indian: Contemporary Native American Voices. edited by Lisa Charleyboy and Mary Beth Leatherdale (Annick Press). Not My Girl. by Christy Jordan-Fenton and Margaret Pokiak-Fenton. Illustrated by Gabrielle Grimard (Annick Press). The Rat. by Elise Gravel (Tundra Books). Shapes in Math, Science and Nature: Squares, Triangles and Circles. by Catherine Sheldrick Ross. Illustrated by Bill Slavin (Kids Can Press). Take Shelter: At Home Around the World. by Nikki Tate and Dani Tate-Stratton (Orca Books). Tastes Like Music: 17 Quirks of the Brain and Body. by Maria Birmingham. Illustrated by Monika Melnychuk (Owl Kids). We All Count: A Book of Cree Numbers. by Julie Flett (Native Northwest).For more information about voting and submissions please contact the Information Book Award Chair, Kay Weisman at weismankay@gmail.com7) IBBY Canada (International Board on Books for Young People, Canadian section).Stop, Thief! illustrated by Pierre Pratt and written by Heather Tedavec (Kids Can Press, 2014) is the winner of the Elizabeth Mrazik-Cleaver Canadian Picture Book Award. Pierre was also nominated [again] by IBBY Canada for the prestigious ans Chrisitan Andersen Award. (www.ibby-canada.org/elizabeth-mrazik-cleaver-pratt/)-----Presented by Gail de Vos. Gail is an adjunct professor who teaches courses on Canadian children's literature, young adult literature, and commic books and graphic novels at the School of Library and Information Studies (SLIS) at the University of Alberta and is the author of nine books on storytelling and folklore. She is a professional storyteller and has taught the storytelling course at SLIS for over two decades.

Dear Readers,We are delighted that this special issue includes book reviews from preschool to junior high readers!We would like to acknowledge Michelle St. Jean, Steven Campbell, Natalie Burns—the grade six and eight teachers from Ben Calf Robe - St. Clare Elementary/Junior High School—whose students completed the reviews as part of their class work. Assistant Principal Sonia Mangieri was our contact at the school who coordinated with the teachers to help make the vision of an issue entirely devoted to student reviews a reality. We would also like to thank Principal Rena Methuen for her school’s participation in this project. We are also grateful to teachers Ann Sheehan and Jenn Sych from the Child Study Centre’s Junior Kindergarten in the Faculty of Education at the University of Alberta for helping their students to provide class reviews of The Pirate’s Bed. Finally we would like to acknowledge our reviewers for contributing their thoughts on a wide range of reading materials and for sharing their favorite books and reading spots. Wishing you all a wonderful READ IN Week with enjoyable books and good friends.Warm wishes,Deakin Editors_________________________________________________________________Dear Readers,Welcome to this special edition of the Deakin Review. My name is Dr. Trudy Cardinal and I am very excited to be part of this edition highlighting the reviews of students from Ben Calf Robe St. Clare School and from the Child Study Centre’s Junior Kindergarten program in the University of Alberta’s Faculty of Education as part of the 2016 READ IN Week celebrations. This year’s theme is: One World, Many Voices, which was inspired in part by the words of Indigenous author Richard Wagamese in his introduction to One Story, One Song: “What binds us together as a human family is our collective yearning to belong, and we need to share our stories to achieve that” (2011, p. 5). As a Cree/Métis scholar I have always yearned to find children’s books that were more representative of the Cree/Métis life I lived as a little girl in northern Alberta but I never did find one. Rather I fell in love with Laura Ingalls Wilder from Little House on the Prairie and Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables feeling a kindred spirit in both of those characters – and yet, despite this love, I still yearned for more – someone more like me! Now, as a teacher educator and a Kokom (a Cree grandmother) I am so excited to find more and more beautiful children’s books, and more and more brilliant Indigenous authors who are creating stories that resonate with my soul. I can now go on grand adventures with Chuck in Jordon Wheeler’s Just a Walk. I see images of my niece Emma in Elizabeth Denny’s Jenneli’s Dance as she wins her first jigging prize and my heart-strings are tugged as I see the spitting image of my younger brother in the little boy in Peter Eyvindson’s Red Parka Mary. Finally, the yearning I have held for so long is beginning to abate as I come across such rich Indigenous literature depicting stories that are more representative of the life I lived as a Cree/Métis little girl. And in this issue, where the youngest readers are given opportunity to share stories of the books they are reading, Deakin Review helps to create spaces of belonging and nurtures the dreams of our youngest - now published - authors. Literacy, when we honor stories of lives, and create spaces for diverse voices in the ways that this issues does, contributes to that greater sense of belonging to which Richard Wagamese speaks. Happy reading!Trudy CardinalDr. Trudy Cardinal is an assistant professor in the department of Elementary Education at the University of Alberta. As a Cree/Métis scholar and Kokom (Cree grandmother), she has a particular passion for stories and storytelling including a love of children’s literature, especially literature written by and portraying the multiplicities in the lives of Indigenous youth and families. Her current favorite book is Just a Walk by Jordon Wheeler because it makes her laugh and think of the many adventures she went on when walking in the woods behind her house! __________________________________________________________Dear Readers,My name is Jill McClay, and I am a reader. Throughout my life, I have held a number of jobs and lived in three countries, but one constant in my life is that I have been a reader for as far back as my memory goes. I am delighted to co-introduce this special issue of the Deakin Review because this issue reminds me of the great variety of readers of all ages. In reading these young readers’ reviews of their favourite stories, I make many connections –they love some of my favourite books, and they like or dislike stories for the same reasons as I do.These young people love some of the stories that I love—the Harry Potter series, anything that John Green writes, Lumberjanes -- and some others I don’t know but now want to read. They read a wide range of literature, from fantasy, science fiction, nonfiction, romance, realistic fiction, manga other graphic stories, mysteries, stories with movie tie-ins, and more. When they explain why they like reading, I nod in agreement at many of their comments: Jerlaine sums up my thoughts best when she writes that she likes to read “because it makes you feel like you’re with different people and different times.” I too like the feeling Aiden expresses, “The author makes you kind of feel like you’re tagging along with the characters in this story.”The readers featured in this issue also dislike stories for some of the same reasons that I do – Nathaniel notes that he “didn't like the part when Obi Wan got captured because he got distracted by cookies. Jedi don't get distracted by cookies.” Fair point! I note that nonfiction draws both great approval and definite disapproval by various readers, reminding us that we all have different tastes.This issue of the Deakin Review, featuring the responses of young readers to their reading, reminds me of the importance of allowing young people to follow their interests in reading. There are stories and books for us all. As friends, teachers, parents, and librarians, we can help each other and young readers find the books that will be important to us by talking about the stories we like.Best wishes,Jill McClayDr. Jill McClay is the Associate Dean of Graduate Studies in the Faculty of Education at the University of Alberta. She likes to read most kinds of fiction, especially young adult novels, picture books, and stories of families through the generations. Her favourite place to read is in her comfy red chair. She doesn’t have a favourite book but likes to re-read some of her favourites occasionally.

Introduction "Barbie has a great day every day, but Ken only has a great day if Barbie looks at him", states the narrator in Barbie (2023). Directed by Greta Gerwig, the film not only claimed the title of the highest-grossing film of the year but also prompted its audience to reconsider a character they had previously mostly overlooked; another one of Barbie’s many accessories: Ken. Ken's identity as Barbie's companion is fundamentally dependent upon the presence and recognition of his more prominent female counterpart. This highlights Ken's secondary role, where he serves as a supporting figure to Barbie's idealised existence. Akin to a Manic Pixie Dream Boy (MPDB) overshadowed by Barbie, we realise Ken’s lack of identity. Throughout the film, Ken, initially depicted as identity-less, embarks on a journey of self-discovery, challenging the confines imposed by white patriarchy, although it doesn’t seem that way at first. This article will first establish Ken's MPDB status, highlighting traits such as (a) seeking to elevate and challenge the main character’s beliefs, (b) harbouring both gentleness and deviousness, while also engaging in playful yet mildly destructive mischief, (c) acting as a catalyst for change, (d) exhibiting a desire to escape, disappear, or transform, leaving valuable lessons behind, and (e) existing solely within the perception of or for the benefit of the main character. Subsequently, it will follow his journey, ultimately examining how a humanoid doll undergoes healing particularly concerning gender issues. Through the deconstruction of his narrative, this article aims to uncover the underlying power dynamics at play and to explore how Ken's transformation contributes to broader conversations surrounding gender fluidity and representation. By doing so, the article will provide an understanding of Ken's role and contribution to the feminist cause, while also offering insights into the broader cultural significance of the film. Manic Pixie Dream Girl In contemporary discourse, the term MPDGirl has gained recognition following its coinage by Nathan Rabin: “that bubbly, shallow, cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” (Rabin, "The Bataan"). It rapidly gained eminence within popular culture, precipitating a widespread societal fixation on the quest for mining more MPDGs, up to the point where Rabin himself voiced his regret about coining the term ("I’m Sorry"). However, the MPDG was already a presence among us. As Laurie Penny states in the article "I Was a Manic Pixie Dream Girl", “Like scabies and syphilis, Manic Pixie Dream Girls were with us long before they were accurately named”. Additionally, Gouck contends that “the Pixie is a descendant of the Classical Muse and also has roots in the Pygmalion myth” (527). Thus, tracing from these foundational mythical and ancient iterations to contemporary relatives such as the Earnest Elfin Dream Gay (EEDG) and the “Magical Negro”, popularised by Spike Lee, reveals a diverse family tree. Although various writers for online platforms have declared the demise of the MPDG (Eby; Harris; Stoeffel), the trope constantly found ways to revive itself. Harris, in her 2012 article "Is the Manic Pixie Dream Girl Dead?", claimed that the trope has been turned on its head with later iterations like Ruby Sparks, “depicting a writer (Paul Dano) whose idealistic, winsome female character comes to life and challenges patriarchal notions of what women actually want”. Tannenbaum, on the other hand, suggested that the MPDG isn’t dead but just evolved through a loophole: the tragic backstory. This article contends that as long as a concept remains in circulation, it cannot die. Thus, even this article itself contributes to the preservation of the phenomenon in question. Manic Pixie Dream Boy In 2012, Molly Lambert introduced a notable extension of the MPDG archetype: the MPDB. Lambert described the MPDB as a character who uplifts the heroine's self-confidence through comfort, inspiration, and nurturing support, without expecting anything in return. He … tamps down her … temper while appreciating her quirks … . He’s a nerd, but not an angry … one. He’s handsome, but he has no idea … . His … hobbies might be immature … but it doesn’t extend to his emotions … . He’s a selfless, responsible Peter Pan. (Lambert) The likening of the MPDB to a selfless and responsible Peter Pan is flawed. One of the main reasons that make Peter Pan Peter Pan is that he doesn’t want to become an adult and be burdened with responsibilities. Additionally, the notion of the MPDB wanting nothing in return is flawed, as the MPDB's actions are usually driven by a fixation obsession rather than genuine altruism. Consequently, rather than epitomising selflessness, the MPDB defined by Lambert aligns more closely with an idealised EveryWoman’sDreamBoy archetype. In 2015, Anna Breslaw introduced another definition, labelling the MPDB as a “self-mythologizing ‘free-spirited’ dude”; however, it still remains unclear and unsatisfactory. Since its inception, there has been a fundamental misunderstanding of the concept of the MPDB. Originally rooted in a female-centric trope, it requires careful interpretation. When the definitions of the MPDB are applied as previously stated, it effectively transforms into an archetype that conventionally represents many women's ideal. However, unlike the MPDG, who is characterised by her eccentricity, the previous definitions of the MPDB reject this norm. Drawing inspiration from figures such as Peter Pan, Puck, King Kong, the Amphibian Man, the Beast, and Edward Scissorhands, the MPDB embodies a blend of comfort and chaos. This dichotomy is exemplified in Ken, who fulfills the role of comfort and chaos for Barbie, yet finds himself unwanted and unneeded. The real MPDB is defined by five core features that distinguish it from the misinterpreted notion often associated with the trope. a) The MPDB seeks to elevate and challenge the main character’s beliefs: Ken consistently tries to alter Barbie’s perceptions, as evidenced by his persistent attempts to reshape her opinion of him beyond superficial interests. This is exemplified by his pursuits beyond conventional activities, such as his daring act of running into the plastic waves, a seemingly unprecedented action that surprises, shocks, or scares those around him. b) The MPDB harbours both gentleness and deviousness, while engaging in playful yet mildly destructive mischief: Ken exhibits a dual nature, demonstrating kindness and charm towards Barbie while simultaneously harbouring ulterior motives, including a deep-seated desire to become Barbie's romantic partner. This complexity in character can be likened to the “nice guy syndrome”, where benevolent actions may mask underlying intentions. Furthermore, upon his return to build patriarchy, this desire is accentuated, showcasing his multilayered personality. c) The MPDB acts as a catalyst for change: Ken serves as an important force in instigating transformation, as demonstrated by the significant shifts that occur in both Barbieland and Barbie's life due to Ken's presence. His actions challenge Barbie's beliefs, whether intentionally or inadvertently, leading her to perceive new perspectives and undergo personal growth. d) The MPDB exhibits a desire to escape, disappear, or transform, leaving valuable lessons behind: Throughout Ken's MPDB journey, his inclination towards escapism, disappearance, or transformation becomes evident. While his initial desire to accompany Barbie may stem from romantic aspirations, it is also fuelled by the rivalry among the Kens. Once Ken realises there is more than Barbieland and he can want different things, he expresses his desire for change. As Ken evolves and heals, he undergoes a transformation, ultimately becoming a changed entity, yet leaving behind significant lessons that pave the way for the transformation of Barbieland and Barbie. e) The MPDB exists solely within the perception of or for the benefit of the main character: Ken’s presence is exclusively crafted within the perspective of, or to serve the needs of, the main character. According to a 2017 GQ article, Michael Shore, the head of Mattel's global consumer insights at the time, states that, “Ken was really viewed as more of an accessory in Barbie’s world, to support the narrative of whatever was happening with the girls” (qtd. in Weaver). This perspective reinforces Ken's role as arm candy within Barbie's world, serving as a complement to her endeavors at a ratio of about 1:7 (Weaver). This aspect highlights the trope's function as a narrative construct intended to support and shape the protagonist's storyline and growth. The MPDB Ken Ken (Ryan Gosling) makes his debut appearance in the Barbie movie at the eight-minute mark. While the narrative primarily revolves around Barbie, Ken's introduction is a subtle but significant moment. As Barbieland unfolds before us, Ken's delayed entrance, as another inhabitant of Barbieland, draws attention. Barbie is everywhere, but where is Ken? Amidst the cheerful exchanges of “Hi Barbie, Hi Ken”, Ken's behavior stands out—he doesn't reciprocate the greeting with other Kens, he only greets Barbie. Ken's omission from acknowledging his fellow Kens seems like a deliberate choice—a denial of their existence, perhaps suggesting that he perceives himself as the sole Ken of significance in Barbieland. His exclusive greeting to Barbie highlights this notion; in his world, Barbie is paramount, and other Kens are unimportant in comparison. We understand that there is a rivalry going on between the Kens; there is no Kenship, mainly between Ken (Gosling) and Ken (Simu Liu). The same evening at the party, while all the Barbies wear complementary yet distinct clothes, the Kens are dressed uniformly in identical outfits. This lack of individuality strips them of identity, claims Roche, “it is a training, an element in the education of controlled individual power ... designed to shape the physique … of [an] individual” (228-9). Uniforms shape individuality into collectivity and thus cause a lack of identity. The white and gold motifs on Kens’ jumpsuits may symbolise collectivity. They are a team; they are minds that have never been shaped before, they are accessories. The 'K' emblem on their jackets further emphasises their lack of identity. Costume designer Jacqueline Durran “imagined Gosling’s character as ‘almost like an accessory’ where his main function is to just be there and match her look. The Kens could all be dressed the same because there wasn’t meant to be anything distinct about them” (Zemler, "Dressing Barbie"). This point is even more highlighted in a scene where Barbie and Ken are in the car going to the real world, where Ken has another jumpsuit that is covered with the letter “B”. In the absence of the other Kens he is even more of an accessory, and even wearing something with his initials is denied, he is Barbie’s property. Contact with Patriarchy Barbie and Ken enter the real world, and interestingly, while throughout the travel sequence, Barbie is in front of Ken, leading Ken, in the shot where they enter the real world, Ken is in front of Barbie. Ken, for the first time alone, somehow ends up at Century City: “it is the antithesis of Barbieland”, says Greenwood, “there is an homage to the male construction industry and the male gaze” (Zemler, "On Location"). Men who are passing him say “excuse me, sir, thanks man, what’s up bud”. This new world that he encounters in Century City is giving him an identity. For the first time, he is something more than an unwanted MPDB. He is sir, he is man, he is bud. Since the Kens exist as a second-class species whose sole purpose is to cheer the Barbies on, he cannot comprehend his actual yearning, he thinks common decency (someone saying excuse me) is what patriarchy is. A fish out of water, the manic pixie Ken creates a pastiche of everything he encounters to assume this new identity: male presidents, mini-fridges, golf, a fur coat, and even horses. His first interaction with horses is through two police officers riding horses. Believing that horses are an important part of patriarchy, Ken wearing a cowboy outfit too, internalises the bond between horse and man. Pickel-Chavelier, in a study about horse stories, states that “the horse has been a fundamental element in the evolution of Western civilization” (120). Robinson argues that historically “the human-horse relationship was male-dominated, reflecting the horses’ role as a work tool and the traditional placing of power and power sources under the control of men” (44). Thus, the rider has been considered to have “increased power and an increased sense of power” while evoking “a sense of inferiority and envy” in pedestrians (Robinson 43). Studying the human-horse relationship through the American mounted police, Lawrence claimed that the mounted police have close relationships with their horses. Robinson states that “the officers spend much time with their animals each day and develop a sense of trust” (43). Ken's admiration of horses likely symbolises his evolving understanding of masculinity and power dynamics within patriarchy. Being introduced to horses as symbols of authority and control, he understands them as companions embodying strength, loyalty, and trust. This explains how he understands masculinity as a realm where power is defined by mutual respect and partnership, rather than dominance, which is also probably the reason why he loses interest in patriarchy when he realises it’s not about horses. Nicholas, in their article "Ken’s Rights?", claims that “radicalization … is often motivated by feelings among … men of being left behind by a feminist world or system that doesn’t value them. This then leads them to long for an imagined natural order of patriarchy where women are back in their place and men regain their entitlements”. Ken’s frustration leads him to introduce patriarchy to his fellow Kens, envisioning a transformation of Barbieland into a new Century City. This shift reflects Ken’s Manic Pixie healing journey: rather than being solely an MPDB, Ken slowly constructs an identity under patriarchy for himself. Drawing from Connell's perspective on hegemonic masculinity, which posits that masculinity is always constructed in response to subordinated masculinities, we see how Ken's desire for change extends to altering the very fabric of Barbieland, from its constitution to its name, renaming it Kendom. This name change holds significance, echoing the concept of “Inceldom” within the larger misogynist ecosystem of the Manosphere, where men perceive themselves as deprived of love and intimacy due to feminist ideals. In addition to incels, the ‘Manosphere’ is comprised of Men’s Right Activists, Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW), AND Pick-Up Artists (PUAs). Each of these groups subscribe to the same underlying philosophy, referred to as the ‘red pill’… When an individual has ‘taken the red pill’, they have enlightened themselves to a reality in which women wield feminism as a weapon against men, depriving them of sex and love. (Gothard et al. 1) Ken’s new outfit is another important change. As patriarchy leaks into Barbieland, Ken's outfit begins to reflect iconic images of masculinity, such as Sylvester Stallone in a mink coat. Previously, Ken's clothing complemented Barbie's, but now, his fanny pack displays his full name instead of just the letter K, positioned over his non-existent genitalia. This deliberate placement implies a newfound connection between his new identity and his imagined sex. When discontent Barbies strategise to disrupt the new order, they manipulate Kens' fragile egos, inciting conflict just before the crucial constitution vote. The fighting sequence starts with Ryan Gosling’s "I'm just Ken" song and imagery reminiscent of Rodin's iconic statue “The Thinker”. The Rodin Museum describes the figure as “a being with a tortured body, almost a damned soul, and a free-thinking man, determined to transcend his suffering through poetry”, mirroring Ken's current state of turmoil. In Rodin’s lifetime, there were “many marble and bronze editions in several sizes” that have been executed (Zelazko). Similarly, there are countless iterations of Ken, undermining his belief in his uniqueness. The general anticipation of the statue being impressive but then feeling let down when seeing its real size serves as a poignant metaphor for Ken's inflated self-importance, contrasted with his inherent fragility and insignificance. As the chorus “I’m just Ken” starts, Ken (Gosling) rides into the battle “on paddle boats reminiscent of cannon-loaded ships, while [Ken (Liu)]’s crew carries him over their shoulders, spinning umbrellas like wheels and holding stick horses as if they were human chariots” (Lee), having frisbees, tennis rackets, and other sports equipment in their hands. This imagery not only captivates the audience but also serves as a reflection of the sports and war imagery in media representations of men. The notion of hegemonic masculinity is intricately woven into such depictions. Jansen and Sabo point out “that the sport/war metaphor is embedded within a “deep structure” of patriarchal values, beliefs, and power relations that, in turn, reflect and advance the agendas of hegemonic masculinity” (2). This metaphor not only reflects but also advances the agendas of hegemonic masculinity. By glorifying competition and valorising traits associated with aggression and dominance, media representations perpetuate narrow and rigid norms of masculinity, reinforcing the hierarchical gender dynamics prevalent in society. However, through playful exploration of these notions, Barbie introduces a significant step in the healing journey of MPDBs, all while cleverly critiquing the inherent associations society makes between masculinity, competitive sports, and even aspects of warfare. Kenough As Ken continues his performance, seamlessly transitioning from a part-power ballad, part-battle sequence into a dream ballet, the narrative takes a profound turn. Connell's concept of “gender order”, referring to “a historically constructed pattern of power relations between men and women and definitions of femininity and masculinity” that emerge and are transformed within varying institutional contexts (98-99), becomes particularly relevant when applied to dancing, seen as an institutional context. Silvester, discussing how gender dynamics within dancing evolved, notes that in the 60s, with the twist and later with disco dancing, dancers did not have to have partners any more, which made the “presumptions about the effeminacy of professional male dancers” widespread (qtd. in Owen 18). Because in performance culture female dancers were the objects of desire for usually male spectators, dancing found itself a place inside the borders of femininity, “and homophobic prejudices against male dancers grew” (Owen 18). Initially, at the party, dancing symbolises their confinement to their identities as Barbie’s accessory, and later it serves as a catalyst for shedding the performative shackles of masculinity and patriarchy. Through dance, MPDB Ken embraces authenticity, breaking down the barriers of the embarrassment of showing admiration to his fellow Kens and fostering genuine connection and affection. The Kens help each other up, they giggle, and they kiss each other on the cheek; they are no longer threatened by each other or by showing affection. As the battle sequence comes to an end, one Ken acknowledges that they were only fighting because they didn’t know who they were. What initially began as a melodramatic expression of the insecurities of an incel, angry at his object of affection, transforms into a collective affirmation of self-worth, fostering unity and acceptance among the Kens. Lee aptly describes this transformation as an elevation from internal conflict to self-affirming validation, marking a pivotal shift away from self-destructive behaviours towards mutual respect and understanding. Ken finally has an identity that is not defined through Barbie’s gaze or patriarchal vision of masculinity. He is not an MPDB that only exists for the protagonist anymore. He finds an identity; however, one he does not know how to express. Connell and Messerschmidt state that “men can adopt hegemonic masculinity when it is desirable; but the same men can distance themselves strategically from hegemonic masculinity at other moments. Consequently, ‘masculinity’ represents not a certain type of man but, rather, a way that men position themselves through discursive practices” (841). Ken still does not abandon what he has found in the real world. Knowing he has been defeated he tries to “strategically” reposition himself. Like a toddler having a temper tantrum, he runs to his mojo dojo casa house, throws himself on his bed, and starts crying, while Barbie tries to comfort him. Myisha et al. suggest that Barbie, as a woman, again is cast in the role of nurturer and comforter, and thus the movie finds itself repeating gender stereotypes. However, missing the point that Ken is crying in this scene, these criticisms are themselves reinforcing gender stereotypes by mistaking common decency for an intrinsic association with women. Ken later denounces patriarchy and learns from Barbie not to define himself by his possessions, his relationship, or his job. Embracing his individuality, he declares, “I'm Ken, and I'm Kenough”, going down the slide, symbolizing a rebirth. In his final shot, Ken is seen with a sweatshirt proclaiming “I’m Kenough”. In embracing his past identities through the bandana and the color pink, he constructs a new identity, one that welcomes all colors. bell hooks defines feminism as “the struggle to end sexist oppression” for all women without “[privileging] women over men” (26). Greta Gerwig, in an interview with Time, acknowledges the struggles faced by both men and women throughout history, highlighting the universal pressure to meet unrealistic standards (Carlin). This suggests that while women face specific forms of oppression, men too are ensnared by other rigid societal norms, if not the same. By recognising these challenges, feminism advocates for the involvement of men in the movement. Whether it is standing in solidarity with women or confronting their own biases, men play a pivotal role in advancing gender equality. For feminism to thrive, it necessitates men's active participation, urging them to support women's rights and challenge patriarchal structures while remaining open to introspection and growth. Feminism has consistently aimed to dismantle the rigid gender binaries epitomised by the Barbie/Ken dichotomy, advocating for the separation of attributes from their gendered associations. From Barbie, we can glean the lesson that hierarchical and inflexible gender norms benefit no one and that power and social roles should not be determined by one's biological sex. Nicholas, in their article "Ken’s Rights?", claims that online antifeminist discourses reveal parallels between Ken's journey in the movie and themes found in Men’s Rights Activist spaces. Ken's transition from aggrievement to a more enlightened perspective on masculinity mirrors the narratives prevalent in such spaces. This underscores the importance of understanding and addressing men within the context of feminism, as their experiences are intertwined with broader societal structures and expectations. True progress cannot be achieved if we continue to view those who perpetuate patriarchy or toxic masculinity as “others”. We should see them as humanoid Ken dolls, and in doing so help them to help us trigger answers and solutions. Understanding and addressing these issues is crucial for healing and reducing harm inflicted by patriarchal norms. While Barbie may have its flaws, focussing solely on its shortcomings detracts from the opportunity to address deeper issues regarding society. MPDB Ken's portrayal as a subservient accessory to Barbie raises important questions about gender dynamics and the impact of societal expectations on individuals. Rather than vilifying Ken because he brought patriarchy to Barbieland, and reducing him only to a man, I advocate for understanding his journey and recognising him also as a brainwashed character, alongside the brainwashed Barbies, who needed the help of his friends to heal. By acknowledging and addressing the influence of patriarchal norms on all individuals, including men like Ken, we can work towards healing and progress for all. References Barbie. Dir. G. Gerwig. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2023. Breslaw, Anna. “Beware the Manic Pixie Dream Boyfriend.” The Cut, 13 Sep. 2015. <https://www.thecut.com/2015/09/beware-the-manic-pixie-dream-boyfriend.html>. Carlin, Shannon. “The History Behind Barbie’s Ken.” Time, 20 Jul. 2023. <https://time.com/6296386/barbie-ken-history/>. Connell, Raewyn. "The Social Organization of Masculinity." Feminist Theory Reader. Routledge, 2020. 192-200. ———. Gender and Power Cambridge. Polity, 1987. Connell, Raewyn, and James W. Messerschmidt. 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