Vivi Conway: Folklore inspiring hope
Author Lizzie Huxley-Jones writes about the power of stories as a refuge and why everyone deserves characters that go beyond caricature.
W
HEN I was growing up in a village in Wales, I didn’t know anyone who
was a writer. And yet, I wrote. I would draw graphic novels and write stories after school and on weekends, and I ate up every reading challenge at the village library like it was a personal trial. On top of that, I wasn’t really sure there was anyone else like me at all. Growing up autistic and disabled without knowing you’re really either, and all the while lacking words to describe what’s happening to you is a strange experience. My body hurt in dramatic, angry ways that I was told was growing pains or because I was fat – turns out, neither were accurate. Time and time again I was misunderstood, with intent read into things I said that I’d never even considered. No one seemed to find the world quite so loud or bright or confusing as I did. Everyone else knew I was different from them too. That gave my bullies a lot of power.
Caricature
I turned to books for answers, but I kept finding half-glimpses. Matilda’s loneliness and love of books matched
my own, and I saw my determination in Sabriel’s dogged search for answers. But no one seemed to hurt like I did, or be as overwhelmed as I was pretty much all the time, except for when I was sitting on a hillside watching the river.
It’s not that there weren’t any autistic or disabled characters in books. The problem was they were such caricatures, like ice-cold boys obsessed with numbers, or so shallowly drawn to be barely people, or purposefully martyred for the sake of the abled protagonist – I couldn’t see myself in them.
Where there were stories about bullying, so often they ended with the main character proving just how cool they were, meaning the bullies stopped tormenting them. In real life, that didn’t work for me, though it might be in part because I’m not particularly cool. When the bullying did taper off for various reasons, I didn’t know how I was supposed to, well, do anything really.
Re-evaluate
Flash forward to adulthood. I’d found out I was autistic in my mid- twenties. Once diagnosed, I had spent time re-evaluating memories and experiences I had through an
Lizzie Huxley-Jones is an author for adults and children, and freelance editor.
https://lizziehuxleyjones.com
autistic lens. During this process, I had turned to books for answers. To my horror, in fiction I found much of the same problems as I did when I was a child. Autistic characters who didn’t have personalities, only quirks and problems that inconvenienced their family. Disabled characters who martyred themselves for their families’ comfort. We were pitiable, burdens or disposable. It was a message I had inadvertently been
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