Artigos de revistas sobre o tema "Transgender people – Juvenile fiction"

In human society, it is natural to see two genders, male and female. It is somewhat surprising that the work of transgender people, who can be called the third gender, is somewhat surprising. In the Mahabharatam, the story of the birth of a transsexual is extended. In nature's creation, we find these people incarnated as transsexuals in practical life. The records of transgenders can be found in abundance in Sangam literary grammar. Transgender people, who have been marginalized in society, are denied the right to participate in public. Transgenders living in small groups in the human community have been ridiculed as "identityless." This is the situation today. In the Sangam literary records, their identity has been recognized socially. It can be said that their contribution to the level of education is low. Transgenders, who are marginalized people, are more likely to be rejected at all levels. Since they lacked the right to education, there was no context in grammatical and literary fiction in which the pedis (hermaphrodites), the transgenders, could register their right to life. No one comes forward to help in public, fearing that if they raise their voice for them, they will be respected as untouchables in society. This denial is also a contemporary phenomenon. As a result, it is necessary to compile how third-gender identities are recorded in the literary field. Transgenders, also known as hermaphrodites, exist as records in literary life. The location of such people's lives is clearly visible in grammatical and literary fiction.

This article identifies the dominant modes of discourse and critiques the problematic tropes and conventions at work in a selection of contemporary young adult fiction novels about young people with queer gender identities. Beginning with the role of young adult fiction, the importance of resisting models of binary gender, the trope of coming out and the convention of the hero’s journey, this article then analyses transphobic tropes: how the narrative lens of pathos functions in these texts to reduce the queer to a state of victimization, invisibility, mental illness, otherness, isolation and not belonging. This article uses the phrase ‘queer genders’ and the term ‘trans*’ to encompass transgender, non-binary, genderqueer, genderfluid and other gender non-conforming identities. ‘Trans’ without the asterisk is the shortened form of ‘transgender’.

Purpose Recent research finds that youth who identify as transgender or gender-expansive are disproportionately incarcerated in juvenile justice systems and are treated differently from their non-trans peers (Himmelstein and Brückner, 2011; Hunt and Moodie-Mills, 2012; Irvine, 2010; Mitchum and Moodie-Mills, 2014). Juvenile justice systems have paid little attention to this group of young people in terms of their unique service needs and risk factors. Using qualitative methods, the researchers analyze in-depth interviews and focus group findings from formerly incarcerated trans youth in juvenile justice settings to better understand their experiences. This paper aims to examine the challenges for young people, and, as well as considered recommendations for juvenile justice professionals to study toward making changes in policies, practices and programs that are needed to support young people who are transgender or gender expansive. Design/methodology/approach Using qualitative, case examples and descriptive analysis, this paper describes the experiences of trans youth in juvenile justice settings and studies toward developing models of promoting trans-affirming approaches to enhance juvenile justice institutions for trans and gender-expansive youth placed in them. The paper describes the evolution of an approach used by the authors, in New York state juvenile justice settings to increase a trans-affirming perspective as a central role in the organization’s strategy and design, and the methods it is using to institutionalize this critical change. Findings culled from the focus groups and in-depth interviews with 15 former residents of juvenile justice settings and several (3) key staff members from the juvenile justice system, focusing on policies, practices and training models are useful tools for assessing progress and recommending actions to increase the affirming nature of such systems. At its conclusion, this chapter will provide clear outcomes and implications for the development of policies, practices and programs with trans and gender expansive youth in juvenile justice systems. Findings Finding are conceptualized in six thematic categories, namely, privacy, access to health and mental health care, the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity, name and pronoun use, clothing, appearance and mannerism, and housing issues. Research limitations/implications This study is limited as it focuses on formerly incarcerated youth in the New York City area. Practical implications The following implications for practice stemming from this study are as follows: juvenile justice professionals (including judges, defense attorneys, prosecutors, probation officers and detention staff) must treat – and ensure others treat – all trans and gender-expansive youth with fairness, dignity and respect, including prohibiting any attempts to ridicule or change a youth’s gender identity or expression. Having written nondiscrimination and anti-harassment policy is also essential. These policies can address issues such as prohibiting harassment of youth or staff who are trans or gender expansive, requiring the use of respectful and inclusive language and determining how gender rules (e.g. usage of “male or “female” bathrooms, gender-based room assignments) will be addressed for transgender and gender-nonconforming youth. Programs should also provide clients and staff with training and helpful written materials. Juvenile justice professionals must promote the well-being of transgender youth by allowing them to express their gender identity through choice of clothing, name, hair-style and other means of expression and by ensuring that they have access to appropriate medical care if necessary. Juvenile justice professionals must receive training and resources regarding the unique societal, familial and developmental challenges confronting trans youth and the relevance of these issues to court proceedings. Training must be designed to address the specific professional responsibilities of the audience (i.e. judges, defense attorneys, prosecutors, probation officers and detention staff). Juvenile justice professionals must develop individualized, developmentally appropriate responses to the behavior of each trans youth, tailored to address the specific circumstances of his or her or their life. Social implications Providing trans-affirming services to youth in juvenile justice settings is a matter of equity and should be the goal strived for by all systems that care for these young people. Helping trans and gender-expansive youth reenter and reintegrate into society should be a primary goal. There are many organizations and systems that stand ready to assist juvenile justice systems and facilities in supporting trans and gender expansive youth in their custody and helping them to rehabilitate, heal and reenter a society that welcomes their participation and where they can thrive and not just survive. Originality/value The paper is original in that it examines the lived experiences of trans and gender-expansive youth in juvenile justice systems. An area, which has not been fully explored in the professional literature.

Several identity-verifying procedures implemented in the wake of September 11, 2001, created conflicts for transgender people in the US who had different sex designations marked on various forms of identification. Trans studies scholars note that these conflicts highlight the assumption that sex is a stable marker of identity and expose that assumption as a fiction. The use of body scanners in airport security illuminates a similar reliance on binary sex categories. However, identity documentation policies and biometrics in airport security operate through different logics about how to solve the problem of affixing individual identities to changing bodies. The experiences of trans people with both identity documentation and airport security body scanners demonstrate that the requirements for passing as a proper citizen differ depending on the context: identity document policies prioritize medical alteration of the body while biometrics register medical alteration of the body as a potential threat to security.

The image of trans monstrosity has been firmly anchored in mainstream North American popular culture, most notably through films such as Psycho, Dressed to Kill, and The Silence of the Lambs. This cultural vilification has had catastrophic effects on trans communities, stoking violence especially against trans-feminine people, promoting discrimination, and severely affecting trans people’s self-images. By analysing two contemporary short stories, Julian K. Jarboe’s I Am A Beautiful Bug! and A.K. Blue’s God Empress Susanna, this paper examines different approaches to the monster trope from trans perspectives and investigates the entanglements between trans identity, monstrosity, and disability.

The last twenty years have seen a proliferation of books for young people dealing with trans experience and issues. This article charts the emergence of transgender fiction for children and young adults, and its development during that period. It will address several questions arising from this phenomenon. How does the representation of trans experience differ when presented for a child readership rather than adults, and for younger children rather than adolescents? How are the representations of gender identity, gender expression and sexuality affected by considerations of audience? What are the tropes (or clichés) of trans fiction, and how have they changed? Whose points of view do the stories represent? Does it matter whether their authors are themselves trans? Is it more possible today than twenty years ago to assume some knowledge in child readers, or must every story “start from scratch”? There is no single answer to any of these questions, but the article will note some of the trends discernible over a range of texts published in English since the start of the century, and describe some of the challenges in writing texts about trans experience in the future.

The paper analyses the use of community conferencing for young people in various jurisdictions in Australia in the light of its impact in Indigenous communities. It argues that the manner in which these programs have been introduced has ignored Aboriginal rights to self-determination and has grossly simplified Indigenous mechanisms for resolving conflicts. In most jurisdictions, community conferencing has reinforced the role of state police and done little to ensure greater control over police discretionary decision-making. The changes have also been introduced in the context of more punitive law and order policies, including mandatory minimum imprisonment terms and repeat offender legislation for juveniles. The end result is likely to be greater bifurcation of the juvenile justice system along racialised boundaries, with Indigenous youth receiving more punitive outcomes.

Recent decades have witnessed an increase in lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and intersex (LGBTQI) visibility in the British media. Increased representation has not been equally distributed, however, as bisexuality remains an obscured sexual identity in discourses of sexuality. Through the use of diachronic corpus-based critical discourse analysis, this study seeks to uncover how bisexual people have been represented in the British press between 1957 and 2017. By specifically focusing on the discursive construction of bisexuality in The Times, the results reveal how bisexual people are represented as existing primarily in discourses of the past or in fiction. The Times corpus also reveals significant variation in the lexical meaning of bisexual throughout the 60 years in question. These findings contribute to contemporary theories of bisexual erasure which posit that bisexual people are denied the same ontological status as monosexual identities, that is, homosexuality and heterosexuality.

This conceptual article synthesizes the empirical research on punitive environmental norms of schools and the disproportionate effects on certain child and adolescent groups, particularly within urban schools. This involvement has come to be known as the school-to-prison pipeline. The young people affected by harsh school discipline protocols and involved formally with the juvenile courts share a number of common vulnerabilities. A review of these common risk factors that children and adolescents experience is presented first. This is followed by identification of which child and adolescent groups are disproportionately involved in the pipeline: the impoverished, those of color, maltreatment victims, students with special education disabilities, and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender.

Scholars have identified policing and hyper-incarceration as key mechanisms to reproduce racial inequality and poverty. Existing research, however, often overlooks how policing practices impact gender and sexuality, especially expansive expressions of gender and non-heterosexuality. This lack of attention is critical because lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) people disproportionately experience incarceration, including LGBTQ youth who are disproportionately incarcerated in juvenile detention. In this article, I draw on 18 months of ethnographic fieldwork and 40 in-depth interviews with LGBTQ youth experiencing homelessness to address this gap in the literature by documenting how police and other agents of the state use their discretion to regulate youth’s gender expressions, identities, and sex lives. I posit that current policing patterns of discrimination operate primarily not through de jure discrimination against LGBTQ people but as de facto discrimination based on discretionary hyper-incarceration practices that police gender, sexuality, and LGBTQ people. I contend that policing is not only about maintaining racial inequality and governing poverty but also about controlling and regulating gender and sexuality, especially the gender and sexuality of poor LGBTQ people of color.

Some people cannot love even their family members, while some seemingly normal people have few paradoxical qualities. Is there a connection between their strange behavior and their childhood experiences? What is the role of childhood in the character development of a person? The psychologists consider childhood experiences as the building blocks of a person’s personality. Freud believed that the child’s bond with the parents is the key to his/her psyche. Erikson divides a person’s life into eight stages of development. Every child faces a crisis or a challenge at each stage. The resolution of the crisis would lead to the acquisition of virtue, while failure caused maladaptive. Karen Horney also puts forth similar views. If the child’s basic need is not met, he/ she would either move towards people or move against or move away from people. This article examines the portrayal of children, their challenges, idiosyncrasies, and impact of their experiences on their psyche in the fiction One Amazing Thing, written by famous Indian American author Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni from a psychoanalytical perspective. She has written a few children’s novels also. A master storyteller, she weaves reality, imagination, and psychology together and creates both adult and juvenile characters who are true to life.

Purpose The purpose of this paper is to investigate how a criminal offender’s dual social identity affects judgments. Drawing from similarity-leniency and black sheep theories, the authors tested and discuss whether these effects could be explained by legal decision makers’ perceptions of hypocrisy or shared identity with the defendant. Design/methodology/approach The authors recruited 256 Christian and non-Christian adults to read a vignette about a juvenile sex offender who was either Christian or non-Christian, and heterosexual or gay. The authors measured participants’ punitiveness toward the offender. Findings Results revealed that legal decision makers were more punitive when they were Christian compared to non-Christian, and the defendant was gay compared to heterosexual. Further, legal decision makers perceived themselves as more similar to the defendant when they were non-Christian compared to Christian, and the defendant was heterosexual compared to gay. Finally, only when the defendant was Christian, legal decision makers perceived him as more hypocritical when he was gay compared to heterosexual. Originality/value This is the first study to investigate whether gay defendants might be particularly discriminated against if they are also Christian. It is also the first to test the black sheep and similarity-leniency theories in the legal context of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and Christian defendants.

AbstractDuring the Gilded Age and Progressive Era, thousands of middle-class youths published their own amateur newspapers. These periodicals were printed using the so-called toy (or “novelty”) press, a portable tabletop device that helped democratize word processing. Children often used their presses to compose miniature novels and short stories. They then shared their prose with a national community of fellow juvenile writers collectively known as “Amateurdom.” Adolescent fiction explored an array of subjects, but the frontier, territorial expansion, and empire in the West became some of its particular fixations. All that imperial storytelling, however, possessed a rich subtext. Boys and girls, reacting to late-nineteenth-century changes in the lived experience of childhood, used their printing presses to challenge various constraints imposed upon them. But in so doing, they both perpetuated and reinforced a pernicious culture of settler colonialism that celebrated the subjugation of American Indians. Ultimately, the amateur publications of children remind us that fiction is not exclusively an adult enterprise. The creative output of young people provides important insight into an underexplored realm of the Gilded Age and Progressive Era’s literary world.

Breaking the Silence. Changes in the Ways of Presenting LGBT+ Issues in Contemporary Slovak Prose In Slovakia after the Velvet Revolution of 1989 groups previously marginalized and discriminated against in the communism era, including the LGBT+ community, began activities aimed at obtaining full civil rights and developing forms of cultural representation. Gradually, the issues of non-heteronormativity began to appear in various areas of culture. As regards prose texts, which are the basis for the reflections presented in this paper, non-heteronormativity was initially portrayed in a stigmatizing, stereotype-based manner. Since the beginning of the 21st century, the dominant approach has been to expose the problem of LGBT+ people living in the closet, hiding their identity due to the homophobia in the society; the sphere of intimacy is considered as the only one that allows a sense of security and the free expression of affection and desire. In more recent works, examples of characters who have come out of the closet and have no problems with functioning openly in the family and social contexts begin to appear. The specificity of Slovak fiction featuring the themes of non-heteronormativity lies mainly in the lack of works of a clearly emancipatory nature, the domination of stories focused on intimate relations between women, and only occasionally introducing gay or transgender themes.

Previous research found that viewing positively portrayed transgender characters in Hollywood TV series reduces negative attitudes towards transgender people. This study investigates whether exposure to short clips from Hollywood fiction can also influence participant attitudes. Using a feeling thermometer (FT), a total of 132 participants viewed either a positive, negative or no-portrayal video and indicated their attitudes towards transgender people pre- and post-exposure. A 3x2 mixed-design ANOVA found a significant interaction effect between the type of portrayal and the point in time of measurement. The results highlight the importance of displaying more positive transgender storylines in films and TV series, and the potential of using (short) videos as part of interventions in educational and the therapeutical settings.

AbstractLesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ+) people have historically been subjected to maltreatment across multiple environments and systems – including their homes, schools, neighborhoods, workplaces, healthcare facilities, and more. The criminal justice and child welfare systems were built on the foundations of cisnormativity and heteronormativity, making LGBTQ+ youth susceptible to systemic oppression and discrimination when compared to their youth counterparts. As such, this paper examines the unique experiences of LGBTQ+ youth in the juvenile and child welfare systems by discussing the systemic inequities and unique challenges that exist for this population – beginning with the risk factors that make them susceptible to exposure to both systems in general. Furthermore, we provide practical recommendations for legal and clinical professionals to better serve their LGBTQ+ youth clients – ranging from changes in policies and legislation, increased staff training, and strategies to create safe and inclusive environments for all youth.

Introduction: Juvenile books are useful tools to increase young people's knowledge and sensitivity about individuals with special needs. In particular, the books that are structured in a qualified way and that appeal to the world of young people will be useful in establishing healthy communication bridges between individuals with typical development and individuals with special needs. For this reason, it is important to identify qualified books on individuals with special needs. In this research, we examined the books that include individuals with special needs as characters in terms of their structure, depiction, and developmental characteristics. Method: The study utilized document analysis model, one of the qualitative research methods, in which we examined the characters with special needs according to various criteria. We evaluated thirty-eight books in the study. While identifying the books, we sought that they appealed to juvenile and included at least one character with special needs. We analyzed the books with the content analysis technique. Results: Results showed eleven different disability types in the 38 books. Of these, 10 were visual impairment, 11 were physical disabilities, six were hearing impairment, six were intellectual disability, six were autism spectrum disorder (ASD), five were cerebral palsy, three were speech and language disorders, three were gifted, one was specific learning disability, one was attention deficiency and hyperactivity disorder, one was a physical disorder. In 33 books, characters had positive depictions; 33 characters had dynamic characteristics, and all of the books had realistic fiction except two. Discussion: The results of the study differ from the studies in the literature in terms of the variety of special needs of the characters. In terms of the reality of the fictions, the results overlap with the studies in the literature. The rate of dynamic characters in the books that are the subject of this research is higher than past studies. The results regarding the relationship between the characters with special needs and their peers are also consistent with the results of the studies on the topic.

News and AnnouncementsAs we move into the so-called “summer reading” mode (although reading is obviously not a seasonal thing for many people), here is a “summery” (pardon the pun) of some recent Canadian book awards and shortlists.To see the plethora of Forest of Reading ® tree awards from the Ontario Library Association, go to https://www.accessola.org/WEB/OLAWEB/Forest_of_Reading/About_the_Forest.aspx. IBBY Canada (the Canadian national section of the International Board on Books for Young People) announced that the Claude Aubry Award for distinguished service in the field of children’s literature will be presented to Judith Saltman and Jacques Payette. Both winners will receive their awards in conjunction with a special event for children's literature in the coming year. http://www.ibby-canada.org/ibby-canadas-aubry-award-presented-2015/IBBY Canada also awarded the 2015 Elizabeth Mrazik-Cleaver Picture Book Award to Pierre Pratt, illustrator of Stop, Thief!. http://www.ibby-canada.org/awards/elizabeth-mrazik-cleaver-award/The annual reading programme known as First Nation Communities Read (FNCR) and the Periodical Marketers of Canada (PMC) jointly announced Peace Pipe Dreams: The Truth about Lies about Indians by Darrell Dennis (Douglas & McIntyre) as the FNCR 2015-2016 title as well as winner of PMC’s $5000 Aboriginal Literature Award. A jury of librarians from First Nations public libraries in Ontario, with coordination support from Southern Ontario Library Service, selected Peace Pipe Dreams from more than 19 titles submitted by Canadian publishers. “In arriving at its selection decision, the jury agreed that the book is an important one that dispels myths and untruths about Aboriginal people in Canada today and sets the record straight. The author tackles such complicated issues such as religion, treaties, and residential schools with knowledge, tact and humour, leaving readers with a greater understanding of our complex Canadian history.” http://www.sols.org/index.php/links/fn-communities-readCharis Cotter, author of The Swallow: A Ghost Story, has been awarded The National Chapter of Canada IODE Violet Downey Book Award for 2015. Published by Tundra Books, the novel is suggested for children ages nine to 12. http://www.iode.ca/2015-iode-violet-downey-book-award.htmlThe 2015 winners of the Ruth and Sylvia Schwartz Children’s Book Awards were selected by two juries of young readers from Toronto’s Alexander Muir / Gladstone Avenue Junior and Senior Public School. A jury of grade 3 and 4 students selected the recipient of the Children’s Picture Book Award, and a jury of grade 7 and 8 students selected the recipient of the Young Adult / Middle Reader Award. Each student read the books individually and then worked together with their group to reach consensus and decide on a winner. This process makes it a unique literary award in Canada.The Magician of Auschwitz by Kathy Kacer and illustrated by Gillian Newland (Second Story Press) won the Children’s Picture Book Category.The winner for the Young Adult/Middle Reader Category was The Boundless by Kenneth Oppel (HarperCollins Publishers).http://www.ontarioartsfoundation.on.ca/pages/ruth-sylvia-schwartz-awardsFrom the Canadian Library Association:The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier (Penguin Canada) was awarded CLA’s 2015 Book of the Year for Children Award.Any Questions?, written and illustrated by Marie-Louise Gay (Groundwood Books) won the 2015 Amelia Frances Howard-Gibbon Award.This One Summer by Mariko & Jillian Tamaki (Groundwood) was awarded the 2015 Young Adult Book Award.http://www.cla.ca/AM/Template.cfm?Section=Book_Awards&Template=/CM/HTMLDisplay.cfm&ContentID=16132The 2015 Winner of the Crime Writers of Canada’s Arthur Ellis Awards for Best Juvenile/YA Book was Sigmund Brouwer’s Dead Man's Switch (Harvest House). http://crimewriterscanada.com/Regional awards:Alberta’s Ross Annett Award for Children’s Literature 2015:Little You by Richard Van Camp (Orca Book Publishers) http://www.bookcentre.ca/awards/r_ross_annett_award_childrens_literatureRocky Mountain Book Award 2015:Last Train: A Holocaust Story by Rona Arato. (Owl Kids, 2013) http://www.rmba.info/last-train-holocaust-storyAtlantic Book Awards 2015 from the Atlantic Book Awards SocietyAnn Connor Brimer Award for Children’s Literature: The End of the Line by Sharon E. McKay (Annick Press).Lillian Shepherd Award for Excellence in Illustration: Music is for Everyone illustrated by Sydney Smith and written by Jill Barber (Nimbus Publishing) http://atlanticbookawards.ca/awards/Hackmatack Children’s Choice Book Award 2015:English fiction: Scare Scape by Sam Fisher.English non-fiction: WeirdZone: Sports by Maria Birmingham.French fiction: Toxique by Amy Lachapelle.French non-fiction: Au labo, les Débrouillards! by Yannick Bergeron. http://hackmatack.ca/en/index.htmlFrom the 2015 BC Book Prizes for authors and/or illustrators living in British Columbia or the Yukon:The Christie Harris Illustrated Children's Literature Prize was awarded to Dolphin SOS by Roy Miki and Slavia Miki with illustrations by Julie Flett (Tradewind).The Sheila A. Egoff Children's Literature Prize for “novels, including chapter books, and non-fiction books, including biography, aimed at juveniles and young adults, which have not been highly illustrated” went to Maggie de Vries for Rabbit Ears (HarperCollins). http://www.bcbookprizes.ca/winners/2015The 2015 Manitoba Young Readers’ Choice Award (MYRCA) was awarded to Ultra by David Carroll. http://www.myrca.ca/Camp Outlook by Brenda Baker (Second Story Press) was the 2015 winner of the SaskEnergy Young Adult Literature Award. http://www.bookawards.sk.ca/awards/awards-nominees/2015-awards-and-nominees/category/saskenergy-young-adult-literature-awardFor more information on Canadian children’s book awards check out http://www.canadianauthors.net/awards/. Please note that not all regional awards are included in this list; if you are so inclined, perhaps send their webmaster a note regarding an award that you think should be included.Happy reading and exploring.Yours in stories (in all seasons and shapes and sizes)Gail de VosGail de Vos 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.

McAllister, Ian, and Nicholas Read. The Sea Wolves: Living Wild in the Great Bear Rainforest. Vancouver: Orca, 2010. Print At first glance, The Sea Wolves is a small coffee table book. It is not, however, just a pretty photographic exploration of the wolves that inhabit The Great Bear Rainforest. It is a very long opinion piece written expressly to convince readers that wolves are not “the big bad wolf” of stories; rather, we should all love and respect them. Authors Ian McAllister, a founding director of both the Raincoast Conservation Society and Pacific Wild, and Nicholas Read, a journalist, pull no punches in their attempt to sway the reader. While the book does present facts about the wolves and their environment, many of them likely accurate, the authors make sweeping statements and claims which they require the reader to accept at face value. For example, though the authors state that there is “a great deal of evidence to suggest that over-fishing, fish farms and climate change have all played a role in [the wolves’] decline,” this statement does not direct the reader to any evidence. Part of the purpose of the book is to educate the reader about the wolves; however, it is also clearly designed to manipulate the readers’ emotions. The authors attempt to get the reader to identify with the wolves through anthropomorphizing the animals and by drawing extensive parallels between the lives of wolves and the lives of people. For example, they state that the reason that wolves save the “tastiest deer” for their young pups “could be because, just as in human families, wolf families like to spoil their babies.” Furthermore, throughout the book, the authors choose emotionally-laden words and images, stating, for example, that wolves “have been persecuted by humans, with a kind of madness,” or that they “romp on the beach in the ocean foam that burbles off the waves like bubble bath.” Each interpretation of the wolves’ behaviour seems designed to achieve the desired effect of garnering sympathy for the creatures. While there is nothing wrong with writing a polemic against the dangers to wolves and their environment, this book is presented by the publisher as juvenile non-fiction for ages 8 and up. Children in upper elementary or even junior high school grades may have difficulty distinguishing between facts and strongly-worded opinions presented in a book labelled as non-fiction. Recommended: Three stars out of fourReviewer: Sandy CampbellSandy is a Health Sciences Librarian at the University of Alberta, who has written hundreds of book reviews across many disciplines. Sandy thinks that sharing books with children is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.

Jeanette Winterson’s 2019 novel Frankissstein is a contemporary re-reading of Mary Shelley’s classic Gothic text Frankenstein that profoundly challenges ideas of what it means to be human in the present day, by drawing on posthuman ideas about the constitution of the self. In this novel, Winterson portrays various forms of ‘monsters’ such as AI, lifelike sex dolls and transgender embodiment. Drawing on both Frankenstein as a text and the infamous creation story of the novel, Winterson creates a deeply intertextual cast of characters that blurs the following: Ry (Mary Shelley), a transgender doctor, Ron Lord (Lord Byron), the creator of a line of sex bots, and Professor Stein (Frankenstein), a scientist interested in AI and cryopreservation. Framed by vignettes of Shelley’s composition of Frankenstein, these characters draw together a set of highly contemporary desires and anxieties about the relationship between the social and science, the ways in which matter is always articulated through both the discursive and the material, and how, to quote Karen Barad, “what often appears as separate entities (and separate sets of concerns) with sharp edges does not actually entail a relation of absolute exteriority at all” (“Posthumanist Performativity” 803). Winterson implicitly and explicitly explores ideas of the posthuman—for instance, in the novel Stein gives a lecture titled “The Future of Humans in a Post-Human World” (74)—and suggests that the future is one in which “binaries belong to our carbon-based past” (72), in ways both liberating and disturbing. While Stein talks about our posthuman future of overcoming even death with the zeal of an evangelist, Winterson undercuts this celebratory rhetoric by situating these emerging forms of self-making in a lineage of the monstrous—”Frankenstein was a vision of how life might be created—the first non-human intelligence” (27)—that suggests the posthuman itself to be a kind of monstrosity. For Winterson, the contemporary monster is one bound up in technologies of self-making, an ambivalent process of both promise and danger that entangles us with monstrosity: “Frankenstein in the monster ... the monster in Frankenstein” (130). Drawing on posthuman theory, I propose that we can read Winterson’s novel as suggesting that modern subjectivity in itself has become defined by hybridity, a mixing between human and non-human elements that problematises many of the boundaries of selfhood that Enlightenment humanism valourised for so long. As Donna Haraway famously said in her “Cyborg Manifesto”: late Twentieth-century machines have made thoroughly ambiguous the difference between natural and artificial, mind and body, self-developing and externally designed, and many other distinctions that used to apply to organisms and machines. Our machines are disturbingly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert. (11) Against this historical backdrop, Winterson suggests that new forms of being human—or becoming posthuman—are emerging, in which sex, gender and sexuality have become profoundly entangled with various forms of biological and informational technology. “We’re still biology but we’re better biology” says Stein (113), suggesting that the future holds new forms of modifications of the body, including smart implants and the uploading of consciousness to computing systems. In situating transgender treatments, AI and sex-bots in a lineage of the monstrous that begins with Frankenstein, Winterson (as much as posthuman theorists), is interested in the way that new forms of technologies mean that all subjectivity has become monstrous itself. But what might it mean to be posthuman? Feminist philosopher Rosi Braidotti has suggested that our post-Enlightenment, posthuman era is one in which the category of the human has become problematised. She says, “not all of us can say, with any degree of certainty, that we have always been human, or that we are only that” (1). For Braidotti, women, people of colour and LGBT people have never been accorded fully human status, and as such the rapid technological change that has challenged humanity as a category is to be embraced, if not precisely uncritically. She argues that posthuman subjectivity is notable for the way that it collapses the boundary between nature and culture, and for the interweaving between human and non-human elements in contemporary life. I want to suggest that one name for those subjects that Braidotti describes that ‘have never have been quite’ human is monster. The figure of the monster deployed by Winterson is one that haunts contemporary ideas of sex, gender, and sexuality. Nikita Mazurov has called the monster a “continuous, unstable project of both disassembly or ex-figuration and of unsanctioned coupling” (262), a posthuman praxis of “hybridity of form” that challenges state-sanctioned productions of the self. The monster challenges ideas of fixity, the metaphysics of presence and essence that created the humanist project. It is, in this sense, abject in the sense that Julia Kristeva famously described, as that which “disturbs identity, system, order [and] does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite” (4). The composition of the monster collapses such foundational binaries as male/female, gay/straight, dead/alive, human/machine, human/animal, black/white, and inside/outside. “The monster is one who lives in transition”, as Paul Preciado says (“Can the Monster Speak” 20). Monsters have therefore historically done profound cultural work, for as Jack Halberstam has said, “monsters have to be everything the human is not and, in producing the negative of human, these novels make way for the invention of human as white, male, middle class, and heterosexual” (22). As Frankissstein suggests, monstrous others continue to haunt contemporary subjectivity. Winterson suggests the human to be an embattled category—and here we must remember that one of the ways in which humanisation emerges is the easy identification of binary gender, as Judith Butler noted long ago in Bodies That Matter (xiii). Haraway anticipated the mainstreaming of the monster in her metaphor of the cyborg, which was, after all, “monstrous and illegitimate” (15), a post-gender, post-Oedipal figure built from the interaction between flesh and machine, nature and culture. The invention of the human, therefore, has become ever more a precarious thing in a posthuman world. Given her interest in gender and sexuality, one of the chief lenses through which Winterson has been read through is queer theory (Moore; Haslett; McAvan). With its portrayal of new forms of gendered and sexual subjectivity, Frankissstein can be productively read against more recent queer and trans theory that take a more posthuman approach to embodiment, rather than that of the linguistically-constructed, Butler-inflected queer theory, which has largely formed the critical context for Winterson’s work on sex and gender. While queer and posthuman theory are not completely coterminous with one another, both arguably take as their starting point a deconstruction of an image of the human which has historically been normatively considered white, male, heterosexual, and cissexual. Taking queer and trans theory into a material turn, Preciado has notably talked about what he calls a “pharmacopornographic” (Testo Junkie, 33) regime, in which globalised post-industrial capitalism runs on the “biomolecular” and “semiotic-technical” (33) industries that produce gendered and sexual subjectivity. Preciado polemically argues that contemporary capitalism is notable for its pervasive regime of pharmaceuticals that modify the body, and pornography that stimulates sexual desire (and here we might add the semiotic regime of sexuality on smartphones, through chat, photos, and dating apps like Tinder and Grindr). Capital, in this regime, has become “sexual capital” (40). As a result, what is a commonsense cis-normative understanding of transgender subjectivity, which relies upon an economy of medicalised body modification, can be said in Preciado’s analysis to constitute the truth of all subjectivity in the present given the ubiquity of pharmaceutical interventions like the contraceptive pill, Viagra, Prozac, and Ritalin. He says, “you think that you’re cis-females, but you take the Pill; or you think that you’re cis-males, but you take Viagra ... . You, you as well, you are the monster that testosterone is waking up in me” (393). The figure of the monster has been a trope of transgender studies since at least Susan Stryker’s “My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix”, which explicitly draws upon Shelley’s Frankenstein as an antecedent for trans subjectivity, suggesting that we see trans bodies as profoundly unnatural, and that as a result, “like the monster, [trans people are] too often perceived as less than fully human due to the means of [their] embodiment” (245). Preciado suggests that the monstrosity popularly imagined to be the unique property of transgender bodies, their partiality and hybridity, is in fact more properly a universal condition of the biopolitical regimes that constitute contemporary life. Almost all of us take pills that modify our bodies and minds, almost all of us construct our sexualities through the semiotic—these non-human elements profoundly interweave with the human in new forms of universal monstrosity. It is perhaps therefore unsurprising that Winterson would also take up the figure of Frankenstein’s monster in her examination of contemporary forms of posthuman subjectivity. The character of Ry, a transgender doctor, is characterised in the novel as an exemplar of a broader cultural interest in self-making, stating that “it really is my body. I had it made for me” (122). This is a self-making that calls into question the construction of other selves, for as Ry says, “I am part of a small group of transgender medical professionals. Some of us are transhuman enthusiasts too. This isn’t surprising; we feel or have felt that we’re in the wrong body. We can understand the feeling that any-body is the wrong body” (114). As strongly as Preciado, the novel suggests that biomolecular and semiotic-technical regimes constitute all contemporary subjectivity, conditioning what is possible, materially and discursively. Far from being uniquely transgender, the desire to transform the body has become universal. Halberstam notes that “the monster always represents the disruption of categories, the destruction of boundaries, and the presence of impurities” (27). “I live with doubleness” says Ry (88), who is depicted as both a transgender man and non-binary. Winterson’s rendering of trans subjectivity suggests transgender to be a kind of both/and state, in between or troubling the sex/gender binary. This occurs in broad and occasionally problematic ways, as when Ry describes himself as “fully female [and] also partly male” (97), an idea that has not been universally appreciated by trans readers for whom misgendering has been a critical concern since at least Julia Serano’s Whipping Girl. Winterson’s take on trans identity as being fluid but grounded in assigned sex seems in many ways ill at ease with a contemporary trans politics grounded in a post-transition authenticity. But what is at stake in Winterson’s depiction of monstrosity is the impurity of the very category of human, the way that it has become interwoven with the bio-medical and semiotic forms of capitalism. It is not simply that Ry disrupts boundaries—though he does do that—, it is that by troubling the sex/gender binary he calls into questions the construction of identity of those around him, too (Stein dubiously says that he is “not gay” despite his desire for Ry). Where Stein’s posthuman rhetoric describes a future in which “we will be able to choose our bodies” (119), this customisation of the self is suggested to already be here for transgender people; “think of yourself as future-early” (119). Ry’s transness is described by Stein as “interven[ing] in your own evolution [being both] the here and now, and a harbinger of the future” (154). The monstrosity of trans corporeality is thus figured as indicative of a general societal movement, confirming Preciado’s ideas of a generalised bio-medical-semiotic posthumanity. We can see this in another way in Winterson’s depiction of sex bots, which render the landscape of contemporary sexuality in characteristically grotesque ways. The character Ron Lord creates a range of female sex bots from 60s hippy to a bra-less 70s feminist. “All of these girls come in different skin tones: black, brown or white. Plus, you can have a muff on the Vintage model if that’s what you want” (47). Lord suggests that sex bots entail a form of sexuality that is endlessly customisable, that allows people to have sex without baggage or complication: ”a lot of people will be happy to not have any more crap relationships with crap humans” (312). The commodification of sex and becoming-semiotic that Preciado has discussed becomes a way of overcoming the limitations—and indeed ethical responsibility—of human relationships. As Lord puts it, “what we offer is fantasy life, not real life” (46). That there is something monstrous about this sexuality is clear in the novel. We might think of Lord’s sex bots as monstrous in a number of ways—firstly, as problematising the boundaries between the sexes, secondly, the confluence between machinic and organic, and thirdly, the inability to distinguish between public and private. All of the bots are female, only made for a presumed heterosexual male audience. The bot’s proportions are exaggerated, with a “20-inch waist and 40-inch boobs” (91) while her legs are “slightly longer than they would be if she was human. This is fantasy, not nature, so you can have what you want” (37). Here it is normative heterosexual male desire, not queer or trans embodiment, that troubles the very boundaries of the human. The sex bot’s body exposes, in Judith Butler’s terms, the performativity of sex and gender disconnected from the limits of the corporeal, the intensification of normative expectations of heterosexual femininity in the sex industry beyond the boundaries of human possibility. “Will women be the first casualties of obsolescence in your brave new world?” asks one character (74), in a pointed critique of the very idea of “female” sex bots. As Preciado notes, in pornography, “sex is performance, which is to say that it is composed of public representations and processes of repetition that are socially and politically regulated” (268). And yet, there is something irreducibly virtual in this regime of “tele-techno-masturbation” (Preciado 266)—for how can a machine be any kind of sex, precisely? How can it have sex? The sex/gender of the “girls in action” is one fraught with the logic of the supplement (recall Derrida, after all, used the term to describe masturbation in Of Grammatology), an addition and replacement, in which the gender and sexuality of the bots is produced through their repetition of norms that are always exceeded and complicated by their performance by a non-human machine. This becomes apparent in a grotesque scene in which one of the sex bots malfunctions and starts saying things while folded up in a cloakroom like “OPEN MY LEGS, DADDY! WIDER!” (90), for which Lord apologises, and states that the bot is “sexually explicit when she is in Bedroom Mode” (91). Preciado has defined pornography as “sexuality transformed into public representation” (266), when the private becomes public. Lord’s sex bots mark the point in which sexuality has become semiotic, technologised, masturbatory. Preciado talks about “the capture of sex and sexuality by economy, the process by which sex becomes work” (274), a work primarily done by women. While Preciado celebrates this becoming-semiotic of sexuality in an accelerationist fashion, it is clear that Winterson has serious ambivalences about this posthuman turn of sexuality (indeed, her earlier book The Stone Gods (2007) is much more positive about the possibilities of cyborg sexuality). Though the posthuman offers possibilities for new forms of sexuality in Frankissstein just as it has for sex and gender, this brings with it the ever-present spectre of monstrosity, the abject disruption of humanist binaries. For Winterson, the power of new technologies that re-shape bodies, minds and desires is one that is profoundly fraught. While there is the pleasure of self-determination (as for Ry), and the potential to transcend human limits, there is also the possibility of new forms of de-humanisation. While Winterson’s early work like 1989’s Sexing the Cherry embraced the pleasures of monstrosity (McAvan), Frankissstein is ultimately more ambivalent about it, if resigned to its future. “I feel the like agony of mind of Victor Frankenstein; having created his monster, he cannot uncreate him. Time has no pity. Time cannot unhappen. What is done is done” (128). New forms of biological modification of the body, new forms of virtualised minds and sexuality, Winterson seems to suggest, are likely to proliferate whether we like it or not. “Nothing we do to the body is without consequences”, reflects Ry (310), suggesting that his body will always be at war with his mind. Just as Mary Shelley imagined Victor Frankenstein as a modern Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods, the posthuman attempts to overcome the limits of the human in a monstrous confluence of human and the bio-technical-semiotic. Though she stages this movement in interesting ways, Winterson is ultimately mostly pessimistic about the possible social consequences of the posthuman turn, if understanding of the desires that animate human attempts to reshape the self. But we need not conclude that posthuman monstrosity is entirely so problematic. Drawing on her work on quantum physics, Karen Barad has written that “matter is not the given, the unchangeable, the bare facts of nature. It is not inanimate, lifeless, eternal. Matter is an imaginative material exploration of non/being, creatively regenerative, an ongoing trans*/formation” (“TransMaterialities,” 411). Perhaps we might find new possibilities in the refiguration of matter, of hybrid forms, of unsanctioned coupling. Winterson has Mary Shelley ponder that “in childbirth there is no me/not me” (12)—a productive challenging of binaries that suggests monstrosity to be the very pre-condition of human life in itself. Perhaps what posthuman monsters expose is that the blurring of binaries happens on every level of matter, that the virtual and material are not as distinct from one another as we would like to think, and that the making and remaking of the self is an inherent part of being human. And that the monsters are not just the ones with bolts in their necks or sex bots or hormone injections in their veins—they are, now and always have been, all of us. References Barad, Karen. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28.3 (2003): 801-831. Barad, Karen. “TransMaterialities: Trans*/Matter/Realities and Queer Political Imaginings.” GLQ 2.2–3 (2015): 387-421. Butler, Judith. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” Routledge, 1993. Braidotti, Rosi. The Posthuman. Cambridge and Malden, Polity, 2013. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak. Johns Hopkins Press, 1974. Halberstam, Judith (Jack). Skin Shows: Gothic Horror and the Technology of Monsters. Duke UP, 1995. Haraway, Donna. “The Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century.” Manifestly Haraway. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2016. 5-90. Haslett, Jane. “Winterson’s Fabulous Bodies.” Jeanette Winterson: A Contemporary Critical Guide. Ed. Sonya Andermahr. Continuum, 2007. 41-54. Mazurov, Nikita. “Monster/The Unhuman.” Posthuman Glossary. Eds. Rosi Braidotti and Maria Hlavajora. Bloomsbury, 2018. 261-264. McAvan, Emily. Jeanette Winterson and Religion. Bloomsbury, 2020. Moore, Lisa. “Teledildonics: Virtual Lesbians in Fiction of Jeanette Winterson.” Sexy Bodies: The Strange Carnalities of Feminism. Eds. Elizabeth Grosz and Elspeth Probyn. Routledge, 1995. 104-127. Preciado, Beatriz (Paul). Testo Junkie: Sex, Drugs and Biopolitics in the Pharmacopornographic Era. Trans. Bruce Benderson. The Feminist Press at CUNY, 2013. Preciado, Paul. Can the Monster Speak? A Report to an Academy of Psychoanalysts. Trans. Frank Wynne. Fitzcarraldo Editions, 2021. Serano, Julia. Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity. Seal, 2007. Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein: Or, Modern Prometheus. Oxford UP, 1969. Stryker, Susan. “My Words to Victor Frankenstein above the Village of Chamounix: Performing Transgender Rage.” The Transgender Studies Reader. Eds. Susan Stryker and Stephen Whittle. Routledge, 2006. 244-256. Winterson, Jeanette. Sexing the Cherry. Grove, 1989. ———. The Stone Gods. Penguin, 2007. ———. Frankissstein. Jonathan Cape, 2019.

Introduction: Serial Space“It feels …like the edge of the world; far more remote than it actually is, perhaps because it looks at such immensity” (Godden “Black,” 38). This is the priest’s warning to Sister Clodagh in Rumer Godden’s 1939 novel Black Narcissus. The young, inexperienced Clodagh leads a group of British nuns through the Indian Himalayas and onto a remote mountain top above Mopu. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger adapted Godden’s novel into the celebrated feature film, Black Narcissus (1947). Following the novel, the film narrates the nuns’ mission to establish a convent, school, and hospital for the local population. Yet, immensity moves in mysterious ways. Sister Clodagh (Deborah Kerr) loses her managerial grip. Sister Philippa (Flora Robson) cultivates wild flowers instead of vegetables. Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron) sheds nun’s attire for red lipstick and a Parisian dress. The young Indian woman Kanchi (Jean Simmons) becomes a force of libidinous disturbance. At the twilight of the British Empire, white, western nuns experience the psychical effects of colonialism at the precipice. Taking such cues from Pressburger and Powell’s film, Michelle Williams Gamaker, an artist, filmmaker, and scholar, responds to Black Narcissus, both film and novel. She does so through a radical interpretation of her own. Gamaker William’s 24-minute film, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten (forthcoming, London 2018) is a longer “short,” which breaks the mould of what scholar Linda Hutcheon would term an “adaptation” (2006). For Hutcheon, there is a double “mode of engagement” between an original work and its adapted form (22). On the one hand, there is a “transcoding” (22). This involves “transporting” characters from a precedent work to its adapted form (11). On the other, there is an act of “creative interpretation” (22). The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten transports yet recreates the Indian “beggar girl” Kanchi, played by a “blacked up” white Hollywood actor Jean Simmons (Black Narcissus), into Williams Gamaker’s contemporary Kanchi, played by Krishna Istha. In this 2018 instalment, Kanchi is an Asian and transgender protagonist of political articulacy. Hence, Williams Gamaker’s film engages a double tactic of both transporting yet transforming Kanchi, as well as Sisters Clodagh and Philippa, from the feature film into The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten. To analyse Williams Gamaker’s film, I will make a theoretical jump off the precipice, stepping from Hutcheon’s malleable concept of adaptation into a space of “trans-serial” narrative.In what follows, I shall read The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten as an “episode” in a serial. The prior episodes, Williams Gamaker’s House of Women (London 2017, Berlin 2018) is a short, fictional, and surreal documentary about casting the role of Kanchi. It can be read as the next episode in Kanchi’s many incarnations. The relationship between Sister Clodagh (Kelly Hunter as voiceover) and Kanchi in House of Women develops from one of confrontation to a transgender kiss in the climatic beat of The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten. Williams Gamaker’s film can be read as one of a series which is itself inflected with the elements of a “trans-serial.” Henry Jenkins argues that “transmedia storytelling represents a process where integral elements of a fiction get dispersed systematically across multiple delivery channels” (emphasis in original, “Transmedia”). I use the word “trans” to define the gap between novelistic texts and film. Throughout Williams Gamaker’s series, she uses many textual citations from Godden’s novel, and dialogue from Pressburger and Powell’s film. In other words, verbal elements as well as filmic images are adapted in Hutcheon’s sense and transmediated in Jenkins’s sense. To build the “serial” concept for my analysis requires re-working concepts from television studies. Jason Mittell introduces “narrative complexity” as the “redefinition of episodic forms under serial narration” (“Narrative,” 32). In serial TV, characters and narratives develop over a sequence of episodes and seasons. In serial TV, missing one episode can thwart the viewer’s reception of later ones. Mittell’s examples reveal the plasticity of the narrative complexity concept. He mentions TV series that play games with the audience’s expectations. As Mittell points out, Seinfeld has reflexive qualities (“Narrative,” 35) and Twin Peaks mixes genres (“Narrative,” 33). I would add that Lynch’s creative liberties offered characters who could appear and disappear while leaving their arcs hanging intriguingly unresolved. The creative possibilities of reflexivity via seriality, of characters who appear and disappear or return in different guises, are strategies that underpin William’s Gamaker’s short film serial. The third in her trilogy, The Eternal Return (in post-production 2018) fictionalises the life of Sabu, the actor who played the General’s son in Black Narcissus. Once again, the protagonist, this time male, is played by Krishna Istha, a non-binary transgender actor who, by taking all the lead roles in William’s Gamaker’s trilogy, grows over the serial as a malleable ethnic and transgender subject. Importantly, The Eternal Return carries residues of the characters from The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten by casting the same team of actors again (Charlotte Gallagher and myself Catherine Lord), and switching their genders. Istha played Kanchi in the previous two episodes. The General’s son, played by Sabu, courted Kanchi in Black Narcissus. In The Eternal Return, Istha crosses the character and gender boundary by playing Sabu. Such casting tactics subvert the gender and colonial hegemonies inherent in Pressburger and Powell’s film.The reflexive and experimental approach of Williams Gamaker’s filmmaking deploys serial narrative tactics for its political goals. Yet, the use of “serial” needs to be nuanced. Glen Creeber sets out three terms: “episodic,” “series” and “serial.” For Creeber, a series provides continuous storylines in which the connection between episodes is strong. In the serial format, the connection between the episodes is less foregrounded. While it is not possible to enjoy stand-alone episodes in a serial, at the same time, serials produce inviting gaps between episodes. Final resolutions are discouraged so that there are greater narrative possibilities for later seasons and the audience’s own game of speculative storytelling (11).The emerging “serial” gaps between Williams Gamaker’s episodes offer opportunities for political interpretation. From House of Women and The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, Kanchi develops an even stronger political voice. Kanchi’s character arc moves from the wordless obedience of Pressburger and Powell’s feature to the transgender voice of post-colonial discourse in House of Women. In the next episode, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, Kanchi becomes Clodagh’s guide both politically, spiritually, and erotically.I will read The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten as both my primary case-study and as the third episode in what I shall theorise to be a four-part serial. The first is the feature film Black Narcissus. After this is Williams Gamaker’s House of Women, which is then followed by The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, my central case study here. There may be immediate objections to my argument that Williams Gamaker’s series can be read by treating Pressburger and Powell’s feature as the first in the series. After all, Godden’s novel could be theorised as the camouflaged pilot. Yet, a series or serial is defined as such when it is in the same medium. Game of Thrones (2011-) is a TV series that adapts George R.R. Martin’s novel cycle, but the novels are not episodes. In this regard, I follow Hutcheon’s emphasis on theorising adapted works as forged between different media, most commonly novels to films. The adaptive “deliveries” scatter through The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten with an ecological precision.Eco SeriesEcological descriptions from Godden’s novel and Pressburger and Powell’s mise-en-scene are performed in The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten through Kelly Hunter’s velvety voiceover as it enjoys a painterly language: butterflies daub the ferns with “spots of ochre, scarlet, and lemon sherbet.” Hutcheon’s term transcoding usefully describes the channelling of particles from the novelist’s text into an intensified, ecological language and cinematic mise-en-scene. The intensification involves an ingestion of Godden’s descriptive prose, which both mimics and adds an adjectival and alliterative density. The opening descriptions of the nuns’ arrival in Mopu is a case in point. In the novel, the grooms joke about the nuns’ habits appearing as “snows, tall and white” (Godden “Black,” 1). One man remarks that they look like “a row of teeth” (Godden “Black,” 2). Williams Gamaker resists shots of nuns as Godden described them, namely on Bhotiya ponies. Rather, projected onto a white screen is an image of white and red flowers slowly coming into focus. Kelly Hunter’s voiceover describes the white habits as a set of “pearly whites” which are “hungry for knowledge” and “eat into the landscape.” White, western nuns in white habits are metaphorically implied to be like a consuming mouth, eating into Indian territories and Indian people.This metaphor of colonial consumption finds its corollary in Godden’s memoirs where she describes the Pressburger, Powell, and Simons representation of Kanchi as “a basket of fruit, piled high and luscious and ready to eat” (“A House,” 24-5; 52). The nun’s quest colonially consumes Mopu’s natural environment. Presumably, nuns who colonially eat consume the colonised Other like fruit. The Kanchi of the feature film Black Narcissus is a supporting character, performed by Simmons as mute, feral and objectified. If Kanchi is to release herself from the “fruity” projections of sexism and racism, it will be through the filmmaker’s aesthetic and feminist tactic of ensuring that planets, trees, fruits and flowers become members of the film cast. If in episode 1 (Black Narcissus), plants and Asian subalterns are colonised, in episode 2, House of Women, these fruits and flowers turn up as smart, young Asian women actors with degrees in law and photography, ready to hold their own in the face of a faceless interviewer. In episode 3, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, it is important that Krishna Istha’s Kanchi, turning up like a magical character from another time and space (transformed from episode 1), commands the film set amidst an excess of flowers, plants and fruits. The visual overflow correlates with Kanchi’s assertiveness. Flowers and Kanchi know how to “answer back.”Like Black Narcissus the feature, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten relies heavily on a mise-en-scene of horticultural and mountain ecology. Just as Michael Powell filmed at Pinewood and Leonardslee Gardens in East Sussex, Williams Gamaker used Rotherhithe’s Brunel Museum roof Gardens and Sands Film Studios. The lusciousness of Leonardslee is film-intertextually echoed in the floral exuberance of the 2018 shots of Rotherhithe. After the crew have set up the classroom, interwoven with Kelly Hunter’s voiceover, there is a hard cut to a full, cinematic shot of the Leonardslee garden (fig. 1).Then cutting back to the classroom, we see Kanchi calmly surveying the set, of which she is the protagonist, with a projection of an encyclopaedic display of the flowers behind her. The soundtrack plays the voices of young women students intoning the names of flowers from delphinium to lupens.These meta-filmic moments are supported by the film’s sharp juxtaposition between classroom and outdoor scenes. In Pressburger and Powell’s school scenes, Sister Ruth attempts to teach the young General how to conjugate the French verb “recevoir.” But the lesson is not successfully received. The young General becomes aphasic, Kanchi is predictably mute and the children remain demure. Will colonialism let the Other speak? One way to answer back in episode 3 is through that transgressive discourse, the language of flowers.In The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, the young women study under Sister Clodagh and Sister Philippa (myself, Catherine Lord). The nuns teach botanical lists and their ecological contexts through rote learning. The young women learn unenthusiastically. What is highlighted is the ludicrous activity of repetition and abstractions. When knowledge becomes so objectified, so do natural environments, territories and people. Clodagh aligns floral species to British locations. The young women are relatively more engaged in the garden with Sister Philippa. They study their environment through sketching and painting a diverse range of flowers that could grow in non-British territory. Philippa is the now the one who becomes feral and silent, stroking stalks and petals, eschewing for the time being, the game of naming (fig. 2).However, lessons with colonial lexicons will be back. The young women look at screen projections of flowers. Sister Philippa takes the class through an alphabet: “D is for Dogbright … L is for Ladies’ Fingers.” Clodagh whirls through a list of long, Latin names for wild flowers in British Woodlands. Kanchi halts Clodagh’s act of associating the flowers with the British location, which colonizes them. Kanchi asks: “How many of us will actually travel, and which immigration border will test our botanical knowledge?” Kanchi then presents a radically different alphabet, including “Anne is African … Ian is Intersex … Lucy loves Lucy.” These are British names attributed to Africans, Arabs, and Asians, many of their identities revealed to be LGBQT-POC, non-binary, transgender, and on the move. Clodagh’s riposte is “How do you know you are not travelling already?” The flowers cannot be pinned down to one location. They cannot be owned by one nation.Like characters who travel between episodes, the travelling flowers represent a collision of spaces that undermine the hegemonies of race, gender and sexuality. In episode 1, Black Narcissus the feature film, the western nuns face the immensities of mountain atmosphere, ecology and an unfamiliar ethnic group. In episode 2, House of Women, the subalterns have transformed their role, achieving educational and career status. Such political and dramatic stakes are raised in episode 3, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten. There is a strong focus on the overlapping oppressions of racial, colonial and ecological exploitation. Just as Kanchi has a character arc and serial development, so do plants, fauna, fruits, flowers and trees. ‘Post’-Space and Its AtmosphereThe British Empire colonised India’s ecological space. “Remember you and your God aren't on British Territory anymore” declares the auditioning Krishna Istha in House of Women. Kanchi’s calm, civil disobedience continues its migration into The Fruit is There to be Eaten between two simultaneously existing spaces, Mopu and Rotherhithe, London. According to literature scholar Brian McHale, postmodern worlds raise ontological questions about the dramatic space into which we are drawn. “Which” worlds are we in? Postmodern worlds can overlap between separate spaces and different temporalities (McHale 34-35). As McHale notes, “If entities can migrate across the semipermeable membrane that divides a fictional world from the real, they can also migrate between two different fictional worlds” (35).In The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, the semipermeable membrane between it and Black Narcissus folds together the temporalities of 1947 and 2018, and the terrains of India and London. Sister Philippa tells a Kanchi seeking Mopu, that “My dear, you are already here.” This would seem odd as Sister Philippa describes the death of a young man close to Saint Mary’s Church, London. The British capital and woodlands and the Himalayas co-exist as intensified, inter-crossing universes that disrupt the membranes between both colonial and ecological space-time, or what I term “post-space.”Williams Gamaker’s post-spaces further develop Pressburger and Powell’s latent critique of post-colonialism. As film scholar Sarah Street has observed, Black Narcissus the film performs a “post-colonial” exploration of the waning British Empire: “Out of the persistence of the colonial past the present is inflected with a haunting resonance, creating gaps and fissures” (31). This occurs in Powell’s film in the initial Calcutta scenes. The designer Alfred Junge made “God shots” of the nuns at dinner, creating from them the iconic shape of a cross. This image produces a sense of over-exactness. Once in the mountains, it is the spirit of exactitude that deteriorates. In contrast, Williams Gamaker prefers to reveal the relative chaos of setting up her world. We watch as the crew dress the school room. Un-ceremoniously, Kanchi arrives in shorts before she picks up a floral dress bearing the label “Kanchi.” There is then a shot in which Kanchi purveys the organised set, as though she is its organiser (fig. 3).Post-spaces are rich in atmosphere. The British agent Dean tells Clodagh in Black Narcissus the film that the mountain “is no place to put a nunnery” due its “atmosphere.” In the climactic scene of The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten, Kanchi and Clodagh face two screens revealing the atmospheric projection of the high mountains, the black cut between them visible, like some shadowy membrane. Such aesthetic strategies continue Powell’s use of technical artifice. Street details the extensive labour of technical and craft work involved in creating the artificial world of Black Narcissus, its mountains, artificial colours, and hence atmosphere, all constructed at Pinewood studios. There was a vast amount of matte painting and painting on glass for special effects (19).William Gamaker’s screens (projection work by Sophie Bramley and Nick Jaffe) reflexively emphasise atmosphere as artifices. The atmosphere intensifies with the soundscape of mountain air and Wayne Urquhart’s original and haunting music. In Powell and Pressburger’s feature, Brian Easdale’s music also invokes a sense of mystery and vastness. Just as TV series and serials maintain musical and mise-scene-scene signatures from one episode to another, so too does Williams Gamaker reframe her precursor’s cinematic aesthetics with that of her own episode. Thus, serial as stylistic consistency is maintained between episodes and their post-spaces.At the edge of such spaces, Kanchi will scare Clodagh by miming a tight-rope walk across the mountain: it is both real and pretend, dramatic, but reflexively so. Kanchi walks a membrane between colliding worlds, between colonialism and its transgression. In this episode of extreme spirituality and eroticism, Kanchi reaches greater heights than in previous episodes, discoursing on the poetics of atmosphere: “… in the midst of such peaks, one can draw near what is truly placeless … the really divine.” Here, the membrane between the political and cultural regions and the mountains that eschew even the human, is about to be breached. Kanchi relates the legend of those who go naked in the snow. These “Abominable Men” are creatures who become phantoms when they merge with the mountain. If the fractures between locations are too spacious, as Kanchi warns, one can go mad. In this episode 3, Kanchi and Clodagh may have completed their journeys. In Powell and Pressburger’s interpretation, Sister Ruth discards nun’s attire for a Parisian, seductive dress and red lipstick. Yet, she does so for a man, Dean. However, the Sister Clodagh of 2018 is filmed in a very long take as she puts on an elegant dress and does her make-up. In a scene of philosophical intimacy with Kanchi, the newly dressed Clodagh confesses her experience of “immensity.” As they break through the erotic membrane separating their identities, both immersed in their full, queer, transgender kiss, all racial hierarchies melt into atmosphere (fig. 4).Conclusion: For a Pitch By making a film as one episode in a series, Williams Gamaker’s accomplishment is to enhance the meeting of narrative and political aims. As an arthouse film serial, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten has enabled definitions of “serial” to migrate from the field of television studies. Between Hutcheon’s “adaptation” and Mittell and Creeber’s articulations of “narrative complexity,” a malleable concept for arthouse seriality has emerged. It has stretched the theoretical limits of what can be meant by a serial in an arthouse context. By allowing the notion of works “adapted” to occur between different media, Henry Jenkins’ broader term of “transmedia storytelling” (Convergence) can describe how particles of Godden’s work transmigrate through episodes 1, 2, and 3, where the citational richness emerges most in episodes 3, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten.Because one novel informs all the episodes while each has entirely different narratives and genres, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten is not a serial adaptation, as is Game of Thrones. It is an experimental serial inflected with trans-serial properties. Kanchi evolves into a postcolonial, transgender, ecological protagonist who can traverse postmodern worlds. Perhaps the witty producer in a pitch meeting might say that in its serial context, The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten is like a cross between two fantasy TV serials, still to be written: Transgender Peaks meets Kanchi Is the New Black. The “new black” is multifaceted and occupies multi-worlds in a post-space environment. ReferencesCreeber, Glen. Serial Television: Big Drama on the Small Screen. London: BFI, 2004.Godden, Rumer. 1939. Black Narcissus: A Virago Modern Classic. London: Hatchette Digital, 2013.———. A House with Four Rooms. New York: William Morrow, 1989. Hutcheon, Linda. A Theory of Adaptation. 2nd ed. New York: New York University Press, 2012.Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York University Press, 2006.———. “Transmedia, 202: Further Reflections.” Confessions of an Aca-Fan 1 Aug. 2011. 1 May 2012 <http://henryjenkins.org/blog/2011/08/defining_transmedia_further_re.html>.McHale, Brian. Postmodernist Fiction. London: Routledge, 1987.Powell, Michael. A Life in Movies: An Autobiography. London: Heinemann, 1986.Mittell, Jason. “Narrative Complexity in Contemporary American Television.” The Velvet Light Trap 58 (Fall 2006): 29-40. Street, Sarah. Black Narcissus. London: I.B. Tauris, 2005.FilmographyBlack Narcissus. Dirs. Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. Pinewood Studios, 1947.House of Women. Dir. Michelle Williams Gamaker. Cinema Suitcase, 2017.The Fruit Is There to Be Eaten. Dir. Michelle Williams Gamaker. Cinema Suitcase, 2018.The Eternal Return. Dir. Michelle Williams Gamaker. Cinema Suitcase, 2018-2019.

Introduction The Owl House is an animated television series that aired on the Disney Channel from 2020 to 2023. The series follows Luz, a teenage Dominican-American human who finds a portal to the Demon Realm. She lands on the Boiling Isles, an island archipelago populated with magical creatures. There, Luz befriends a middle-aged witch named Edalyn “Eda” Clawthorne (also known as Eda the Owl Lady), and her housemate/adoptive son King, a cute dog-like demon with a skull for a head. Eda agrees to teach Luz magic. Magic is then used as a narrative prosthesis (McReynolds) to explore themes of inclusion and belonging. Our particular focus in this article is disability. Disability is represented in The Owl House in several ways, but most explicitly through Eda’s curse. Eda lives with a curse that turns her into an Owl Beast when not controlled by an elixir (a form of medication). Eda is the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles and also its most wanted criminal. Yet, she also brings with her significant insight through her experience of living with her curse. Throughout this article, we draw on key concepts of critical disability studies in order to explore the way representations of familial relationships in The Owl House, both chosen and biological, are used as vehicles to subvert compulsory able-bodiedness, and therefore demonstrate affirmative notions of disability. As a field, critical disability studies respond to the limitations of both the medical model of disability, which sees impairments as the basis of disability, and the social model, which locates disability within society’s failure to accommodate bodily difference. Critical disability studies recognise disability as a complex web of physical, social, cultural, and political forces that work together to create disability. The affirmative model of disability is central to our discussion. This model takes a “non-tragic view of disability and impairment, which encompasses positive social identities, both individual and collective, for disabled people grounded in the benefits of lifestyle and life experience of being impaired” (Swain and French 569). The affirmative model recognises both positive and negative aspects of disability and, through its focus on identity and community, gives people with disability space to claim a positive individual and group identity. This disability identity is constructed outside the discourse of contemporary able-bodiedness and has its own benefits. Throughout The Owl House, Eda and Luz create a community of outsiders and then, like the affirmative model, celebrate and value the characteristics that prompted their exclusion. Familial Allyship Found families are tight-knit groups created by choice rather than through traditional bio-legal ties (Levin et al. 1). The provenance of this concept stems from the central role of friendship in the lives of queer people rejected by their biological family (Levin et al. 1): when many terminally ill queer patients with HIV/AIDS were abandoned by their biological families, they were often cared for by friends, elevating “the relationship from friendship to something more; an iteration of family” (Levin et al. 2). However, this queering of the traditional kinship structure is not solely an LGBTQIA+ experience: Alternative caregiving and kinship frameworks have “been shown to run parallel along multiple, intersecting lines of social disenfranchisement” (Levin et al. 2), including in disability communities. The Owl House subverts the traditional normative social unit of the biological family, instead privileging (at least initially) “chosen” or “found” family based on platonic care. Eda’s found family members, King and Luz, demonstrate an expanded “notion of kinship” (‘Caring Kinships’ 21), borne out of mutual experiences of rejection from their families and/or societies of origin. Eda, King, and Luz are self-identified “weirdos”, often proclaiming, “us weirdos have to stick together”. Though Eda is rebellious and outwardly confident, she is an outcast in the Boiling Isles. As a “wild witch,” Eda is breaking the law by refusing to conform to the mandatory oppressive coven system of the Boiling Isles. Because of her outlaw status and curse, Eda tends to isolate herself from the rest of society. She is often evasive and keeps people from getting close to her, avoiding her biological family, and keeping emotional distance from romantic interests. King also has a tenuous relationship with his place in society, struggling to understand his identity after being taken in by Eda at a young age. He has never seen another demon like him and has little recollection of his life before Eda. Finally, Luz was an outcast of her own in the human world. Before finding her way to the Boiling Isles, she often felt misunderstood, with her mother planning to send her to “Reality Check Summer Camp: Think Inside the Box”. The three characters find acceptance and allyship with one another, forming their own familial unit. This allyship is integral to Eda’s progression into self-acceptance. After sharing the secret of her curse with King and Luz, Eda gradually begins to open herself up to receiving help and support. As the series progresses, Eda finds herself taking on a caregiver role to both King and Luz, often referring to them as “the kids”. King even legally changed his name to King Clawthorne, so their family ties could be official. Though at this Eda’s life becomes more complex than it was when she isolated herself – due to her sense of responsibility for the kids – it also proves to be more fulfilling: Eda’s closeness to King and Luz leads her to make amends with her sister, rekindle an old relationship, and reconnect with her father. The queer, alternative kinship structure of The Owl House also creates a backdrop for themes of resistance to normative expectations. For example, in the society of the Boiling Isles, witches must join a coven and give up all other forms of magic; humans are not able to practice magic; and those cursed must long for a cure. However, within the home boundaries of the Owl House, these normative expectations are defied. Eda is a “wild witch” who refuses to conform to the oppressive coven system; Luz learns magic through non-traditional methods and eventually teaches these to Eda when her curse takes away her own magic; and Eda later accepts her curse as part of herself, while discovering the benefits it can bring. These alternative ways of living eventually extend to the outside of the house: as the family fight for a better future for everyone on the Boiling Isles, this action becomes central in dismantling the oppressive mandatory coven system. Eda eventually founded the University of Wild Magic to mentor students to express magic in their own way – a direct opposition to the former coven system –, with Luz attending as a student. Overall, Eda’s chosen family are integral not only to her personal journey to self-acceptance but to the subversion of norms outside the private realm for the betterment and freedom of the wider community. Lilith The character arc of Lilith, Eda’s older sister, depicts the pressure of ‘compulsory able-bodiedness’, and the importance of community and allyship in dismantling this ideology. The logic of compulsory able-bodiedness upholds able-bodiedness as the norm that everyone must strive toward (Siebers). As a result, compulsory-able-bodiedness perpetuates the idea that people with disability must change themselves to meet (often unnecessary and unrealistic) able-bodied standards, such as being independent, thus positioning interdependence as inferior (Swain and French 573). Lilith’s character arc shows her progression from living without a curse, to acquiring a curse and dismantling her beliefs about able-bodiedness through the help of her allies. At the beginning of the series, Lilith is an antagonist working for the Emperor’s Coven and wants to capture Eda for being a coven-less witch. It is later revealed Lilith was the one who cursed Eda in the first place: as a child, feeling jealous and threatened by Eda’s skill, Lilith secretly placed a curse on her sister so she would lose the tryouts for a place in the prestigious Emperor’s Coven. However, on the day of the tryouts, Eda forfeits, preferring to remain coven-less and practise all kinds of magic. The curse then begins to take place, transforming Eda into the Owl Beast. To Lilith’s horror, the curse was not temporary, but lifelong. The audience then finds out that Lilith, motivated by guilt, worked her way up to a senior role in the Emperor’s Coven because the Emperor promised her a cure for Eda. Later in the series, this promise is revealed to be false, and Lilith rebels against the Emperor. After proving herself trustworthy, Lilith casts a pain-sharing spell on her sister, allowing her to take on half of Eda’s curse. This is the catalyst for their reconnection and the beginning of Lilith’s redemption arc. Upon acquiring the curse – which, for Lilith, takes the form of a raven – Lilith initially feels a loss of identity. She formerly placed her self-worth on her powerful magic and her high-profile job, neither of which she now has. In Season 2, Episode 1, Lilith is shown struggling with this change in self-perception, asking herself: “Who am I without magic? Without a coven?” When she first starts experiencing the symptoms of her curse, she rejects offers of help because she feels the need to prove her independence – perhaps the ultimate ideal of compulsory able-bodiedness. However, Lilith eventually admits she needs help and can’t do it alone. Together, Eda and Lilith create their own form of disability community. Thanks to Luz and King, Eda is now more receptive to letting people in and is happy to support her sister with her emerging curse symptoms. Eventually, Lilith finds that “failing” to live up to able-bodied expectations frees her of certain societal expectations (Swain and French 574–575). Instead of leading through fear in an oppressive coven, Lilith pursues her passion as a historian and becomes a curator at the Supernatural Museum of History. Her experiences also motivate her to dismantle the oppressive coven system along with Eda and their chosen family. Gwendolyn The character arc of Eda and Lilith’s mother, Gwendolyn, works to challenge the personal tragedy model of disability. This model of disability dominates cultural beliefs and media representations, perpetuating the idea that happiness and disability are mutually exclusive (Swain and French 572–573). Viewing disability as inherently tragic can also engender “paternalistic or condescending ableism” from non-disabled people, which elicits “behaviours that infantilize, overprotect, and take control” of people with disability, whom they presume to be unduly dependent (Nario-Redmond 337). This infantilisation has real-world consequences for people with a disability, including justification of “the sheltered regulation of disabled lives ‘for their own good’” (Nario-Redmond 337). In The Owl House, Gwendolyn initially holds these paternalistic views of her daughter’s curse. However, they are then subverted by the narrative development of the series, demonstrating the effect that Gwendolyn’s ableism (and eventual acceptance) has on her daughter. Gwendolyn is portrayed as the initial source of Eda’s shame about her curse. Episode 4 of Season 2, “Keeping Up A-Fear-Ances”, begins with a flashback of young Eda telling her mother and a healer about her recurring nightmare of the Owl Beast. Afterwards, young Eda overhears the healer suggesting that Gwendolyn consult the Potions Coven to keep the curse at bay. Gwendolyn is horrified at this suggestion, exclaiming, “Keep it at bay?! Oh no, my daughter is suffering, and I want that thing out! Cut it out if you have to”. Eda then runs away, afraid of what her mother will do to her. This highlights Gwendolyn’s deep-rooted belief that her daughter’s curse is inherently shameful. Although as the central plot develops Eda is now a grown witch in her 40s, Gwendolyn is still consumed with finding a cure for her daughter, despite Eda’s claims to the contrary. One day, Gwendolyn shows up at the Owl House, proclaiming, “Today I shall be curing your curse!”, to which Eda flatly replies, “No thanks”, explaining she is fine with her elixir system. Gwendolyn has been visiting Eda yearly with new hopes for a cure, and she blames the curse, rather than her own ableist beliefs, for the rift between her and her daughter. Gwendolyn explains to Luz that she has been studying under Master Wartlop, an expert healer specialising in curses. However, after procuring a book of cures from Wartlop – none of which work on Eda – Luz realises Gwendolyn has been scammed. At this point, Gwendolyn reveals she has stolen all of Eda’s elixirs and begins to spout anti-potion rhetoric. Luz and Gwendolyn begin to argue, and the stress triggers Eda’s Owl Beast, which she cannot control without her elixir. Lilith also transforms into her Raven Beast for the first time. Gwendolyn flies back to Wartlop for answers, only to realise that he is not a magic healer, but four gremlins in a costume. When Gwendolyn returns to her daughters, both of whom are now fighting each other in Beast form, she admits: My beautiful daughters, I failed you. Edalyn … I should’ve listened to you. I know now why you pushed me away. I made you think your curse was something to be ashamed of. Whether we want it or not, it’s a part of you. And I love every part of you. I’m so sorry. Hearing this apology from her mother enables Eda to momentarily take control of her curse, allowing her to help her sister. Luz and King then pour elixir onto the sisters, transforming them back into witches. Subverting the Miracle Cure The Owl House subverts the “miracle cure” trope of disability often found in media, wherein a cure – whether through divine intervention, medicine, or technology – is the most desirable ending for a (deserving) disabled character (Norden 73). By doing so, the series highlights values inherent to the affirmative model of disability, such as connectedness and interdependence. In Season 2, Episode 8, Eda finally confronts her curse after a lifetime of running. After accidentally eating a cookie laced with sleeping nettles, she experiences heightened dreams. Eda has a history of recurring dreams in which she is being haunted by her curse. In the dream, Eda angrily confronts her curse – which takes the form of an owl living in her subconscious – and they begin fighting. Eda blames the owl for her problems and screams at it to stop ruining her life. The stress of this confrontation causes Eda and the owl to merge, forming the Owl Beast. Later in the dream, the Beast is captured and falls into the ocean as it tries to escape, separating Eda and the owl into their own forms once again. They wash up on the shore and the owl, now much smaller, is trying to fly away. However, it is too exhausted, eventually falling onto the sand in a crumpled heap. As the owl struggles to breathe, Eda tentatively approaches it and pats it on the head, softly telling it, “It’s okay”. After this gesture of kindness towards the owl, a bottle of elixir washes up at their feet, and Eda says: I thought these [elixirs] were a way to fight you, but I think they're the reason we can stand here, face to face. Listen, neither of us want to be here, but, we are, and there's no changing that. If we can't accept each other, this nightmare will never end. So, what do you say? Truce? Eda pours some elixir into her hand and offers it to the owl, who drinks it, and then climbs into Eda’s lap, falling asleep peacefully. As Eda softly pets the owl, the dark black sky transforms into swirling lights of colour, and Eda says, “Wow … I’ve never had a dream this pretty”. As Eda embraces the owl, the two begin to levitate, and the dream fades out. Upon waking, Eda finds she has transformed into a harpy – part witch, part owl – as a physical manifestation of her embracing (literally and metaphorically) her curse. When she sees her reflection in the mirror, Eda wolf whistles at herself approvingly, exclaiming, “Oh girl, this is a hot look!” Eda later learns to transform into a harpy at will, and her new liminal form challenges her previously naturalised boundary between the self (the witch) and the other (the curse). Eda is no longer a witch cursed by an owl, but a witch and an owl. Though she still drinks the elixir, Eda begins to accept herself and the owl as connected parts of each other. Rather than perpetuating the idea of a cure as the most desirable ending, The Owl House provides Eda with an alternative solution to her curse: what McReynolds terms a “prosthetic relationship”. McReynolds argues that the traditional concept of prosthesis can be expanded to include anything that “allows a body to function in an environment for which it is overwise unequipped” (115). In this way, Eda and the owl form two halves of an entirely new whole: their relationship becomes defined by affirmative values of connectedness and interdependence rather than normative, able-bodied ideals of independence and bodily control. Conclusion This article explores the role of Eda’s chosen family (Luz and King), as well as her biological family (her sister Lilith and mother Gwendolyn), in representing affirmative ideas of disability. The affirmative model of disability gives people with disability space to claim their disability as a valid and valuable identity. Throughout the article, we argue that Eda’s curse is representative of disability. The progression from shame to acceptance to pride depicted in this series offers an important representation of disability: one which, in line with critical disability studies, responds to the limitations of both the medical and social models of disability. Indeed, The Owl House embraces an affirmative model of disability, recognising the importance of disability, identity, and community. While we have focused on Eda’s curse and familial relationships in this article, future studies could consider audience responses to The Owl House, and particularly those of audiences with disability and neurodiversity identifying with this animated series. The Owl House subverts traditional narratives of disability grounded in compulsory able-bodiedness and instead uses magic to depict a pragmatic view of disability grounded in acceptance and affirmation. References “Caring Kinships.” The Care Manifesto: The Politics of Interdependence. La Vergne: Verso UK, 2020. 21–26. Levin, Nina Jackson, Shann K. Kattari, Emily K. Piellusch, and Erica Watson. “‘We Just Take Care of Each Other’: Navigating ‘Chosen Family’ in the Context of Health, Illness, and the Mutual Provision of Care amongst Queer and Transgender Young Adults.” International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health 17.19 (2020). 13 July 2023 <https://www.proquest.com/docview/2635387787/abstract/75380BDFD2F4B06PQ/1>. McReynolds, Leigha. “Animal and Alien Bodies as Prostheses: Reframing Disability in Avatar and How to Train Your Dragon.” Disability in Science Fiction: Representations of Technology as Cure. Ed. Kathryn Allan. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013. 115–27. Nario-Redmond, Michelle R. Ableism: The Causes and Consequences of Disability Prejudice. Newark: John Wiley & Sons, 2019. Norden, Martin F. The Cinema of Isolation: A History of Physical Disability in the Movies. Rutgers UP, 1994. Siebers, Tobin. Disability Theory. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2008. Swain, John, and Sally French. “Towards an Affirmation Model of Disability.” Disability & Society 15.4 (2000): 569–82.

Introduction Mentors play a role in real life, just as they do in fiction. They also feature in reality television, which sits somewhere between the two. In fiction, mentors contribute to the narrative arc by providing guidance and assistance (Vogler 12) to a mentee in his or her life or professional pursuits. These exchanges are usually characterized by reciprocity, the need for mutual recognition (Gadamer 353) and involve some kind of moral question. They dramatise the possibilities of mentoring in reality, to provide us with a greater understanding of the world, and our human interaction within it. Reality television offers a different perspective. Like drama it uses the plot device of a mentor character to heighten the story arc, but instead of focusing on knowledge-based portrayals (Gadamer 112) of the mentor and mentee, the emphasis is instead on the mentee’s quest for ascension. In attempting to transcend their unknownness (Boorstin) contestants aim to penetrate an exclusive creative class (Florida). Populated by celebrity chefs, businessmen, entertainers, fashionistas, models, socialites and talent judges (to name a few), this class seemingly adds authenticity to ‘competitions’ and other formats. While the mentor’s role, on the surface, is to provide divine knowledge and facilitate the journey, a different agenda is evident in the ways carefully scripted (Booth) dialogue heightens the drama through effusive praise (New York Daily News) and “tactless” (Woodward), humiliating (Hirschorn; Winant 69; Woodward) and cruel sentiments. From a screen narrative point of view, this takes reality television as ‘storytelling’ (Aggarwal; Day; Hirschorn; “Reality Writer”; Rupel; Stradal) into very different territory. The contrived and later edited (Crouch; Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) communication between mentor and mentee not only renders the relationship disingenuous, it compounds the primary ethical concerns of associated Schadenfreude (Balasubramanian, Forstie and van den Scott 434; Cartwright), and the severe financial inequality (Andrejevic) underpinning a multi-billion dollar industry (Hamilton). As upward mobility and instability continue to be ubiquitously portrayed in 21st century reality entertainment under neoliberalism (Sender 4; Winant 67), it is with increasing frequency that we are seeing the systematic reinvention of the once significant cultural and historical role of the mentor. Mentor as Fictional Archetype and Communicator of ThemesDepictions of mentors can be found across the Western art canon. From the mythological characters of Telemachus’ Athena and Achilles’ Chiron, to King Arthur’s Merlin, Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, Jim Hawkins’ Long John Silver, Frodo’s Gandalf, Batman’s Alfred and Marty McFly’s Doc Emmett Brown (among many more), the dramatic energy of the teacher, expert or supernatural aid (Vogler 39) has been timelessly powerful. Heroes, typically, engage with a mentor as part of their journey. Mentor types range extensively, from those who provide motivation, inspiration, training or gifts (Vogler), to those who may be dark or malevolent, or have fallen from grace (such as Michael Douglas’ Gordon Gekko in Wall Street 1987, or the ex-tribute Haymitch in The Hunger Games, 2012). A good drama usually complicates the relationship in some way, exploring initial reluctance from either party, or instances of tragedy (Vogler 11, 44) which may prevent the relationship achieving its potential. The intriguing twist of a fallen or malevolent mentor additionally invites the audience to morally analyze the ways the hero responds to what the mentor provides, and to question what our teachers or superiors tell us. In television particularly, long running series such as Mad Men have shown how a mentoring relationship can change over time, where “non-rational” characters (Buzzanell and D’Enbeau 707) do not necessarily maintain reciprocity or equality (703) but become subject to intimate, ambivalent and erotic aspects.As the mentor in fiction has deep cultural roots for audiences today, it is no wonder they are used, in a variety of archetypal capacities, in reality television. The dark Simon Cowell (of Pop Idol, American Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent and The X-Factor series) and the ‘villainous’ (Byrnes) Michelin-starred Marco Pierre White (Hell’s Kitchen, The Chopping Block, Marco Pierre White’s Kitchen Wars, MasterChef Australia, New Zealand, South Africa) provide reality writers with much needed antagonism (Rupel, Stradal). Those who have fallen from grace, or allowed their personal lives to play out in tabloid sagas such as Britney Spears (Marikar), or Caitlyn Jenner (Bissinger) provide different sources of conflict and intrigue. They are then counterbalanced with or repackaged as the good mentor. Examples of the nurturer who shows "compassion and empathy" include American Idol’s Paula Abdul (Marche), or the supportive Jennifer Hawkins in Next Top Model (Thompson). These distinctive characters help audiences to understand the ‘reality’ as a story (Crouch; Rupel; Stradal). But when we consider the great mentors of screen fiction, it becomes clear how reality television has changed the nature of story. The Karate Kid I (1984) and Good Will Hunting (1998) are two examples where mentoring is almost the exclusive focus, and where the experience of the characters differs greatly. In both films an initially reluctant mentor becomes deeply involved in the mentee’s project. They act as a special companion to the hero in the face of isolation, and, significantly, reveal a tragedy of their own, providing a nexus through which the mentee can access a deeper kind of truth. Not only are they flawed and ordinary people (they are not celebrities within the imagined worlds of the stories) who the mentee must challenge and learn to truly respect, they are “effecting and important” (Maslin) in reminding audiences of those hidden idiosyncrasies that open the barriers to friendship. Mentors in these stories, and many others, communicate themes of class, culture, talent, jealousy, love and loss which inform ideas about the ethical treatment of the ‘other’ (Gadamer). They ultimately prove pivotal to self worth, human confidence and growth. Very little of this thematic substance survives in reality television (see comparison of plots and contrasting modes of human engagement in the example of The Office and Dirty Jobs, Winant 70). Archetypally identifiable as they may be, mean judges and empathetic supermodels as characters are concerned mostly with the embodiment of perfection. They are flawless, untouchable and indeed most powerful when human welfare is at stake, and when the mentee before them faces isolation (see promise to a future ‘Rihanna’, X-Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 1 and Tyra Banks’ Next Top Model tirade at a contestant who had not lived up to her potential, West). If connecting with a mentor in fiction has long signified the importance of understanding of the past, of handing down tradition (Gadamer 354), and of our fascination with the elder, wiser other, then we can see a fundamental shift in narrative representation of mentors in reality television stories. In the past, as we have opened our hearts to such characters, as a facilitator to or companion of the hero, we have rehearsed a sacred respect for the knowledge and fulfillment mentors can provide. In reality television the ‘drama’ may evoke a fleeting rush of excitement at the hero’s success or failure, but the reality belies a pronounced distancing between mentor and mentee. The Creative Class: An Aspirational ParadigmThemes of ascension and potential fulfillment are also central to modern creativity discourse (Runco; Runco 672; United Nations). Seen as the driving force of the 21st century, creativity is now understood as much more than art, capable of bringing economic prosperity (United Nations) and social cohesion to its acme (United Nations xxiii). At the upper end of creative practice, is what Florida called “the creative class: a fast growing, highly educated, and well-paid segment of the workforce” (on whose expertise corporate profits depend), in industries ranging “from technology to entertainment, journalism to finance, high-end manufacturing to the arts” (Florida). Their common ethos is centered on individuality, diversity, and merit; eclipsing previous systems focused on ‘shopping’ and theme park consumerism and social conservatism (Eisinger). While doubts have since been raised about the size (Eisinger) and financial practices (Krätke 838) of the creative class (particularly in America), from an entertainment perspective at least, the class can be seen in full action. Extending to rich housewives, celebrity teen mothers and even eccentric duck hunters and swamp people, the creative class has caught up to the more traditional ‘star’ actor or music artist, and is increasingly marketable within world’s most sought after and expensive media spaces. Often reality celebrities make their mark for being the most outrageous, the cruelest (Peyser), or the weirdest (Gallagher; Peyser) personalities in the spotlight. Aspiring to the creative class thus, is a very public affair in television. Willing participants scamper for positions on shows, particularly those with long running, heavyweight titles such as Big Brother, The Bachelor, Survivor and the Idol series (Hill 35). The better known formats provide high visibility, with the opportunity to perform in front of millions around the globe (Frere-Jones, Day). Tapping into the deeply ingrained upward-mobility rhetoric of America, and of Western society, shows are aided in large part by 24-hour news, social media, the proliferation of celebrity gossip and the successful correlation between pop culture and an entertainment-style democratic ideal. As some have noted, dramatized reality is closely tied to the rise of individualization, and trans-national capitalism (Darling-Wolf 127). Its creative dynamism indeed delivers multi-lateral benefits: audiences believe the road to fame and fortune is always just within reach, consumerism thrives, and, politically, themes of liberty, egalitarianism and freedom ‘provide a cushioning comfort’ (Peyser; Pinter) from the domestic and international ills that would otherwise dispel such optimism. As the trials and tests within the reality genre heighten the seriousness of, and excitement about ascending toward the creative elite, show creators reproduce the same upward-mobility themed narrative across formats all over the world. The artifice is further supported by the festival-like (Grodin 46) symbology of the live audience, mass viewership and the online voting community, which in economic terms, speaks to the creative power of the material. Whether through careful manipulation of extra media space, ‘game strategy’, or other devices, those who break through are even more idolized for the achievement of metamorphosing into a creative hero. For the creative elite however, who wins ‘doesn’t matter much’. Vertical integration is the priority, where the process of making contestants famous is as lucrative as the profits they will earn thereafter; it’s a form of “one-stop shopping” as the makers of Idol put it according to Frere-Jones. Furthermore, as Florida’s measures and indicators suggested, the geographically mobile new creative class is driven by lifestyle values, recreation, participatory culture and diversity. Reality shows are the embodiment this idea of creativity, taking us beyond stale police procedural dramas (Hirschorn) and racially typecast family sitcoms, into a world of possibility. From a social equality perspective, while there has been a notable rise in gay and transgender visibility (Gamson) and stories about lower socio-economic groups – fast food workers and machinists for example – are told in a way they never were before, the extent to which shows actually unhinge traditional power structures is, as scholars have noted (Andrejevic and Colby 197; Schroeder) open to question. As boundaries are nonetheless crossed in the age of neoliberal creativity, the aspirational paradigm of joining a new elite in real life is as potent as ever. Reality Television’s Mentors: How to Understand Their ‘Role’Reality television narratives rely heavily on the juxtaposition between celebrity glamour and comfort, and financial instability. As mentees put it ‘all on the line’, storylines about personal suffering are hyped and molded for maximum emotional impact. In the best case scenarios mentors such as Caitlyn Jenner will help a trans mentee discover their true self by directing them in a celebrity-style photo shoot (see episode featuring Caitlyn and Zeam, Logo TV 2015). In more extreme cases the focus will be on an adopted contestant’s hopes that his birth mother will hear him sing (The X Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 11 Part 1), or on a postal clerk’s fear that elimination will mean she has to go back “to selling stamps” (The X Factor US - Season 2 Episode 11 Part 2). In the entrepreneurship format, as Woodward pointed out, it is not ‘help’ that mentees are given, but condescension. “I have to tell you, my friend, that this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You don’t have a clue about how to set up a business or market a product,” Woodward noted as the feedback given by one elite businessman on The Shark Tank (Woodward). “This is a five million dollar contract and I have to know that you can go the distance” (The X Factor US – Season 2 Episode 11, Part 1) Britney Spears warned to a thirteen-year-old contestant before accepting her as part of her team. In each instance the fictitious premise of being either an ‘enabler’ or destroyer of dreams is replayed and slightly adapted for ongoing consumer interest. This lack of shared experience and mutual recognition in reality television also highlights the overt, yet rarely analyzed focus on the wealth of mentors as contrasted with their unstable mentees. In the respective cases of The X Factor and I Am Cait, one of the wealthiest moguls in entertainment, Cowell, reportedly contracts mentors for up to $15 million per season (Nair); Jenner’s performance in I Am Cait was also set to significantly boost the Kardashian empire (reportedly already worth $300 million, Pavia). In both series, significant screen time has been dedicated to showing the mentors in luxurious beachside houses, where mentees may visit. Despite the important social messages embedded in Caitlyn’s story (which no doubt nourishes the Kardashian family’s generally more ersatz material), the question, from a moral point of view becomes: would these mentors still interact with that particular mentee without the money? Regardless, reality participants insist they are fulfilling their dreams when they appear. Despite the preplanning, possibility of distress (Australia Network News; Bleasby) and even suicide (Schuster), as well as the ferocity of opinion surrounding shows (Marche) the parade of a type of ‘road of trials’ (Vogler 189) is enough to keep a huge fan base interested, and hungry for their turn to experience the fortune of being touched by the creative elite; or in narrative terms, a supernatural aid. ConclusionThe key differences between reality television and artistic narrative portrayals of mentors can be found in the use of archetypes for narrative conflict and resolution, in the ways themes are explored and the ways dialogue is put to use, and in the focus on and visibility of material wealth (Frere-Jones; Peyser). These differences highlight the political, cultural and social implications of exchanging stories about potential fulfillment, for stories about ascension to the creative class. Rather than being based on genuine reciprocity, and understanding of human issues, reality shows create drama around the desperation to penetrate the inner sanctum of celebrity fame and fortune. In fiction we see themes based on becoming famous, on gender transformation, and wealth acquisition, such as in the films and series Almost Famous (2000), The Bill Silvers Show (1955-1959), Filthy Rich (1982-1983), and Tootsie (1982), but these stories at least attempt to address a moral question. Critically, in an artistic - rather than commercial context – the actors (who may play mentees) are not at risk of exploitation (Australia Network News; Bleasby; Crouch). Where actors are paid and recognized creatively for their contribution to an artistic work (Rupel), the mentee in reality television has no involvement in the ways action may be set up for maximum voyeuristic enjoyment, or manipulated to enhance scandalous and salacious content which will return show and media profits (“Reality Show Fights”; Skeggs and Wood 64). The emphasis, ironically, from a reality production point of view, is wholly on making the audience believe (Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) that the content is realistic. This perhaps gives some insight as to why themes of personal suffering and instability are increasingly evident across formats.On an ethical level, unlike the knowledge transferred through complex television plots, or in coming of age films (as cited above) about the ways tradition is handed down, and the ways true mentors provide altruistic help in human experience; in reality television we take away the knowledge that life, under neoliberalism, is most remarkable when one is handpicked to undertake a televised journey featuring their desire for upward mobility. The value of the mentoring in these cases is directly proportionate to the financial objectives of the creative elite.ReferencesAggarwal, Sirpa. “WWE, A&E Networks, and Simplynew Share Benefits of White-Label Social TV Solutions at the Social TV Summit.” Arktan 25 July 2012. 1 August 2014 <http://arktan.com/wwe-ae-networks-and-simplynew-share-benefits-of-white-label-social-tv-solutions-at-the-social-tv-summit/>. 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Introduction In the film Barbie, Stereotypical Ken “only has a great day if Barbie looks at him”. Ken’s identity is based on Barbie’s approval, that is, until he garners the approval of other Kens by reshaping their collective identities under the patriarchy. The Kens’ patriarchal collective identities are demonstrated in part through their participation in popular-culture fandoms. They mansplain The Godfather and Stephen Malkmus, demand their Barbies be “really invested in the Zack Snyder cut of Justice League”, and sing Matchbox 20’s “Push” at the Barbies “while staring uncomfortably into [their] eyes for four and half minutes”. It would be easy to write these moments off as jabs at stereotypic masculine interests. The film's criticism, however, is not only the merit of these interests, nor a declaration that only men care about them. Rather, the critique of patriarchal collective identity is shown in the way these interests are shared through competitive, affirmational fandom. Affirmational fandoms are fandoms built on knowledge of canon, with fan identity typically expressed through competition around mastery of explicit, official knowledge. Affirmational fandoms have historically been thought to draw more men-dominated fan bases (Correa-Chávez, Kohfeldt, and Nguyen 1), as they lend themselves to the kinds of hierarchies inherent in patriarchy. Transformational (or transformative) fandoms, on the other hand, are thought to be more popular among women and gender-diverse fans and show less interest in pure canon ideation, instead utilising the source material to create something entirely new (Jenkins 47-8). In this way, transformational fandom is similar to how Barbies themselves are intended to be played with. This article will explore how Barbie illustrates the differences between affirmational vs. transformational fandom, textually and metatextually, and how patriarchal and binary approaches to fandom ultimately disempower everyone, including those who identify as men. Affirmational vs. Transformational Fandom The term “affirmational fandom” was first coined by Dreamwidth user obsession_inc in 2009 to distinguish fan culture which seeks to reiterate a creator’s intended meaning of a work. Participation in an affirmational fandom is demonstrated through steadfast devotion to canonical knowledge, and adherence to rules inherent to the creator’s own worldbuilding. In affirmational fandom, knowledge of canon is treated as important capital, often traded between fans as a way to best one another in a competition of who knows the most about niche topics. Specifically, fans participate in what sociologist Bourdieu describes as cultural capital (knowledge) that leads to building social capital (networks). Since this type of fandom positions the creator as the master authority on interpretations of works, fans are able to weaponise their own mastery of the text and alignment with the creator's intentions in order to create a social structure within the fandom that is intentionally exclusionary and hierarchical. Moreover, since many popular works have male creators, largely due to systemic inequities in the film, television, and written fiction industries (“2021 Statistics”), this hierarchy also mirrors patriarchy in its unchallenged centring of men’s perspectives and thus its overall appeal to men as fans (Busse). Suzanne Scott further criticised this centring of creators as ultimate authorities through her deconstruction of the "fanboy auteur" (44). The fanboy auteur is someone who functions as both content creator and fan, thus manufacturing an even greater divisiveness between production and the everyday consumer by stratifying the fanboy auteur into a separate category of fan that most other fans cannot achieve. Scott (47) draws upon the Foucauldian notion of textual discourses and the role of the author, or “author function” (Foucault 75), to describe how a fanboy auteur reinforces the status quo by maintaining an exclusionary fan identity, as opposed to allowing the author to fully step back from the work so that it might be interpreted and reinterpreted, vastly, through a diversity of lenses. Foucault argued that the authorial role is, as are most things, socially constructed through public discourse, as is the definition of authorial power (76). In other words, by defining something in media, one has power over it, and that power can be used to discipline who gets to use, understand, and engage with said media as an artifact. As is often seen in patriarchal social structures, the fanboy auteur has overwhelmingly benefited not just men, but white men specifically (Salter and Stanfill). Affirmational fandoms stand in stark contrast to transformational fandoms, a concept popularised by Henry Jenkins in his book Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. Jenkins described a transformative process that fans guide texts through, which prioritises meaning-making and imagination over canon, or creator, in fan spaces. This is often done through the production of transformative works such as fan fiction and fan art that are largely unconcerned with fidelity to a work’s creator, sometimes treating them as entirely separate from the production of fan works. While transformational fandoms still exchange cultural capital to build social capital and maintain a sense of hierarchy at times, they do so with a much lower bar for entry that is more accessible to otherwise marginalised fans. In addition to accessibility, transformational fandom has been thought of as a more feminist fandom due to the disproportionate presence of women in transformational fan spaces and their disproportionate engagement in fan labour through the creation of content such as zines and archival fan fiction (Correa-Chávez, Kohfeldt, and Nguyen). Importantly, there are ways in which this labour is exploited by male-dominated industries as a means to signal diverse representation, as opposed to actually including diverse representation in media texts (Lowe). Examples in Barbie Transformative fandom is what Barbie dolls, and by proxy the Barbie movie, were made for. The film’s opening is itself a transformative work, a reimagining of 2001: A Space Odyssey, with young girls rejecting the socially rigid construct of the baby doll for the sleek new toy that defies categorisation. Like transformative works, Barbies can be anything, implying that women and girls can also be anything. As a result, we see Barbies at the start of the film engaging in a broad array of careers and interests, appearing to have a level of autonomy that isn’t quite so easily obtained by women in the real world. Because the Barbie movie also features diverse Barbies including Barbies who are transgender, size-inclusive, of various races and ethnicities, and Barbies who use devices such as wheelchairs, the film also transforms the image of women in popular media by depicting them more realistically than is typical in major motion pictures. The shift that Barbie Land takes in the second act, when Stereotypical Ken introduces the concept of patriarchy, more closely mirrors affirmational fandoms, both textually and metatextually. Textually, the Kens are seen mansplaining various topics. Mansplaining has been defined by researchers “not only as simply patronizing and condescending, but as designed to assert the speaker’s superior knowledge, on the basis of their gender” (Joyce et al. 521). As within affirmational fandoms, through mansplaining, knowledge is used as a form of power. Simply mansplaining, however, is not in and of itself demonstrative of affirmational fandom. For fandom to be affirmational, it must also use said knowledge as cultural capital, elevating the Kens to a place of superiority over the Barbies, as well as over one another, based on their level of higher expertise and deference to a creator. This is where Barbie goes the extra mile as social commentary – the Ken’s are not just talking about the what of these various topics, but, in the case of fandom specifically, the why of it, central to an idealised creator. One of the clearest examples of this is actor Kingsley Ben-Adir’s Ken name-dropping The Godfather’s creators, noting “Coppola’s aesthetic genius” as well as referring to the film as a “triumph to Robert Evans and the architecture of the 1970s studio system”. This Ken is both sharing deep lore about the film’s production, as well as asserting dominance through this knowledge, sharing it only after he has belittled President Barbie for having not watched the film in the first place. Ncuti Gatwa’s Ken likewise discusses how “Stephen Malkmus really harnessed the acerbic talk-singing of Lou Reed with post-punk influences such as ‘The Wire’ and ‘The Fall’”. Neither of these are shallow, hot takes, but instead are the kinds of niche affirmational knowledge that fan studies authors describe as excess made into expertise (Zygutis; Scott). We see this again in Writer Barbie’s discussion of having gotten “really invested in the Zack Synder cut of Justice League” while under the indoctrination of the Kens. In the real world, fans developed a cult-like devotion to the Snyder cut of Justice League after the studio released a shorter, heavily edited version of the film. The organised collective action fans engaged in to pressure the studio to release the Snyder cut (or director’s cut) represents the intersection of affirmational fandom and civically engaged fandom (Cook and Joseph 73). Instead of working toward broader socio-cultural change, however, releasing the Snyder cut allowed fans to focus on levelling up their cultural capital within fandom to pull rank, so to speak, over fans who had not seen this version. This aligns with the idea of the creator’s vision as the ultimate authority over a story – one that not only should be released, but defended as canon. Even the repetition of Matchbox 20’s “Push”, in Barbie, is somewhat affirmational in that it is pure reproduction, right down to the 1990’s grunge singing style of yarling (“Yarling”), which we do not see repeated elsewhere in the diegetic portions of the soundtrack sung by Ryan Gosling or the other actors portraying Kens. Metatextually, we as the audience are meant to be in on the joke, meant to laugh at the Kens for posturing in this way, meant to see it as inherently patriarchal, and thus flawed when viewed through the feminist lens of the film. It is, after all, the very undoing of the Kens, as the Barbies plot to distract them by first aiming to make the Kens think they have power over the Barbies, and then, as Sasha remarks, “make them question whether they have enough power over each other”. This is accomplished by the Barbies through manipulating the Kens’ fannish appreciation for “Push”, done so by feigning interest in their Ken’s replication of the song, only to then wound their Ken’s pride by redirecting that attention to another, rival Ken. This act creates affirmational competition within the fannish display. Stereotypical Barbie even goes so far as to question the authorial voice of the song, which actor Sam Liu’s Ken misattributes to himself, instead of the actual and idealised creator. This interplay between competition and misattribution seeds disruption to the Kens’ collective power by calling into question fannish identity and fidelity to the creator such that in-fighting occurs. It is not the final domino in the chain of unseating the Kens’ power, but it is an important one that can only be accomplished by turning the competition inherent in affirmational fandom into something that can be used against fans, in this case the Kens. How Binary Approaches to Fandom (and Gender) Do Harm An important question the film asks is whether power should be lauded or shared, particularly as it relates to gender politics. Certainly, in the real world, we can see the harms of uneven power dynamics as highlighted by the affirmational nature of knowledge. Mansplaining, for example, has been shown to be prevalent in the modern workplace as a form of typically, but not always, gendered mistreatment, with impacts on job performance, retention, and psychological distress (Smith et al.). It has also been described as a tactic used by some neo-liberal white men as a way to re-centre masculinity and men’s voices as an ultimate source of knowledge, and thus power, in discourse on intersectional feminism, a tactic otherwise described as “covert hegemony” (Burkley 170). Importantly, these kinds of affirmational, hegemonic systems can also be upheld by people other than white men, when said systems prove beneficial to gaining or maintaining power. For example, Rouse, Condis, and Stanfill found examples of hegemony and racism in both anti-liberal and liberal fan spaces online, while Lothian and Stanfill found that even feminist fans spaces perpetuate harm to marginalised groups by the very structures built to protect some while not protecting all marginalised communities. Barbie as a film never quite presents a conclusion to gendered power inequalities. Instead, the film acknowledges multiple flaws in the binary territories of both Barbie Land and the real world but leaves us without an egalitarian solution in either. What Barbie does do is to offer a starting point for further exploration by asking the Kens to see themselves as “Kenough”, affirmed in who they are without the need to vie for power using the affirmational tactics they practiced before. Fandom studies has also only begun to answer questions about gender inequity. Firstly, recent research suggests that a gendered divide between affirmational and transformational fandom may exist, but not quite in the ways previously theorised. Rather than men being more likely to engage in affirmational fandom than women, Correa-Chávez, Kohfeldt, and Nguyen found that women fans were more likely compared to men to engage in all types of fannish activities, both affirmational and transformational, though women did tend to engage in transformational activities the most between the two types of fannish participation (4). Importantly, however, affirmational fandom was narrowly defined through consumption and not proliferation (e.g. reading but not producing plot analyses). Cosplay, or costuming, was also separated out into a third category of mimic fandom, using Matt Hill’s definition of the term from his own paper on the subject. While this third category constitutes an interesting approach to ways in which affirmational and transformational fandom overlap, it also somewhat negates the ways in which cosplay can itself be affirmational (rule-bound) or transformational (changed in ways that fundamentally reimagine a character). Many cosplayers, for example, gender-bend characters, or reinterpret them in ways that are transformative of canon, something that fans of Barbie have been enacting in movie theaters and at pop-culture conventions following the film’s release. These distinctions are important when considering the impact of Barbie on affirmational vs. transformational fan practices in fan spaces, as well as broader spaces. At what point are fans participating in reproduction (affirmational) vs. reimagination (transformational)? The answer depends somewhat on context and the meaning created through the cosplay. For example, cosplay at fan conventions is occurring within a fan space, and thus meaning is made by fan communities. Barbie as a cultural phenomenon has also made its way into non-fannish transformative spaces, however, where meaning is less clear. For example, San Francisco’s 2024 “Hunky Jesus” contest saw “Jesus Ken”, a man dressed as Jesus nailed to a cross inside a Ken-style pink box, take home the win for best costume (Kura). Here, the space between fandom and other communities is blurred, and thus, so is related meaning. Conclusion Barbies are imaginative play, so it is no surprise that Barbie as a film highlights the differences between imaginative, transformational fandom and more rule-bound, affirmational fandom. It is also not a coincidence that those who play with Barbie dolls and those who engage in transformative fan practice are more likely to identify as women, or as having gender- and sexually diverse identities, given ways in which transformational spaces make greater room to create a more equitable world through inherent feminist critique. Imaginative play, in this sense, is a life-long process and continues to be formative for exploring facets of ourselves. Playing with Barbies, including in the Barbie film, enables individuals to understand their place in the world while simultaneously pushing the boundaries of what is possible. Part of the genius of Barbie is that it shows how fan knowledge and practice (cultural capital) can constrain or enable personal and social growth. While the mastery and leveraging of fan knowledge under patriarchy gave the Kens a kind of power, it also isolated and limited them as individuals. Likewise, affirmational fandom can constrain and limit the potential for individuals and communities to change, grow, and explore through engagement with media when used in exclusionary ways. Importantly, affirmational fandom does not have to be exclusionary. Information can just be information. The critique of affirmational fandom is simply that it is often misused when viewed through a feminist lens. Transformational fandom, on the other hand, can challenge dominant cultural tropes, norms, and values. As Barbie demonstrates, transformational fandom has the power to inspire us to imagine better, and that power can never be put back in a box. References 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dir. Stanley Kubrick. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 1968. “2021 Statistics.” Women and Hollywood. 10 Apr. 2024 <https://womenandhollywood.com/resources/statistics/2021-statistics/>. Barbie. Dir. Greta Gerwig. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2023. Bourdieu, Pierre. A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Trans. R. Nice. London: Routledge, 1984. Buerkle, C. Wesley. “Adam Mansplains Everything: White-Hipster Masculinity as Covert Hegemony.” Southern Communication Journal 84.3 (2019): 170–182. DOI: 10.1080/1041794X.2019.1575898. Busse, Kristina. "Geek Hierarchies, Boundary Policing, and the Gendering of the Good Fan." Participations 10.1 (2013): 73-91. ​ Cook, Tanya, and Kaela Joseph. Fandom Acts of Kindness: A Heroic Guide to Activism, Advocacy, and Doing Chaotic Good. Dallas, TX: Smart Pop Books, 2023. Correa-Chávez, Maricela, Danielle Kohfeldt, and John Nguyen. "Women in Fandom: Participation Patterns and Perceived Authenticity." Psychology of Popular Media (2023). DOI: 10.1037/ppm0000470. Foucault, Michel. "What Is an Author?" Reading Architectural History. Routledge, 2003. 71-81. Jenkins, H. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. Updated 20th anniversary ed. New York: Routledge, 2013. Joyce, Jack B., et al. “Speaking Out against Everyday Sexism: Gender and Epistemics in Accusations of ‘Mansplaining.’” Feminism & Psychology 31.4 (2021): 502–529. DOI: 10.1177/095935352097. Justice League (Directors Cut). Dir. Zack Snyder. Warner Bros., 2021. Kukura, Joe. “Photos: ‘Jesus Ken’ Wins Hunky Jesus Contest as Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence Celebrate Their 45th Anniversary.” SFList, 1 Apr. 2024. <https://sfist.com/2024/04/01/photos-ken-jesus-wins-hunky-jesus-contest-as-sisters-of-perpetual-indulgence-celebrate-their-45th-anniversary/>. Hills, Matt. “From Dalek Half Balls to Daft Punk Helmets: Mimetic Fandom and the Crafting of Replicas.” Transformative Works and Cultures 16 (2014). DOI: 10.3983/twc.2014.0531. Lothian, Alexis, and Mel Stanfill. "An Archive of Whose Own? White Feminism and Racial Justice in Fan Fiction's Digital Infrastructure." Transformative Works and Cultures 36 (2021). DOI: 10.3983/twc.2021.2119. Lowe, J.S.A. "We’ll Always Have Purgatory: Fan Spaces in Social Media." Journal of Fandom Studies 5.2 (2017): 175-192. DOI: 10.1386/jfs.5.2.175_1. Matchbox 20. “Push.” Yourself or Someone You Like. Atlantic, 1997. obsession_inc. “Affirmational Fandom vs. Transformational Fandom.” Dreamwidth, 1 Jun. 2009. 10 Apr. 2024 <https://obsession-inc.dreamwidth.org/82589.html>. Salter, Anastasia, and Mel Stanfill. A Portrait of the Auteur as Fanboy: The Construction of Authorship in Transmedia Franchises. Jackson: UP of Mississippi, 2021. Rouse, Lauren, Megan Condis, and Mel Stanfill. "Making Fandom Great Again: Silencing Discussions of Racism in Reactionary and Transformative Fandoms." Popular Communication (2024): 1-13. DOI: 10.1080/15405702.2024.2336254. Scott, Suzanne. "Who’s Steering the Mothership? The Role of the Fanboy Auteur in Transmedia Storytelling" Participatory Cultures Handbook. New York: Routledge, 2013. Smith, Chelsie J., et al. "‘Well, actually’: Investigating Mansplaining in the Modern Workplace." Journal of Management & Organization (2022): 1-19. DOI: 10.1017/jmo.2022.81. The Godfather. Dir. Francis Ford Coppola. Paramount Pictures, 1972. “Yarling.” TV Tropes, the All Devouring Pop-Culture Wiki, n.d. 10 Apr. 2024 <https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/Yarling>. Zygutis, Linda. "Affirmational Canons and Transformative Literature: Notes on Teaching with Fandom." Transformative Works and Cultures 35 (2021). DOI: 10.3983/twc.2021.1917.

Neil Jordan’s Breakfast on Pluto (2005) reconceives transience and domesticity together. This queer Irish road film collapses opposition between mobility and home by uncoupling them from heteronormative structures of gender, desire, and space—male/female, public/private. The film’s protagonist, Patrick “Kitten” Braden (Cillian Murphy), wanders in search of a loved one without whom she does not feel at home. Along the way, the film exposes and exploits the doubleness of both “mobility” and “home” in the traditional road narrative, queering the conventions of the road film to convey the desire and possibilities for an alternative domesticity. In its rerouting of the traditional road plot, Breakfast on Pluto does not follow a hero escaping the obligations of home and family to find autonomy on the road. Instead, the film charts Kitten’s quest to realise a sense of home through trans-domesticity—that is, to find shelter in non-heteronormative, mutual care while in both transient and public spaces.I affix “trans-” to “domesticity” to signal both the queerness and mobility that transform understandings of domestic spaces and practices in Breakfast on Pluto. To clarify, trans-domesticity is not queer assimilation to heteronormative domesticity, nor is it a relegation of queer culture to privatised and demobilised spaces. Rather, trans-domesticity challenges the assumption that all forms of domesticity are inherently normalising and demobilising. In other words, trans-domesticity uncovers tensions and violence swept under the rugs of hegemonic domesticity. Moreover, this alternative domesticity moves between and beyond the terms of gender and spatial oppositions that delimit the normative home.Specifically, “trans-domesticity” names non-normative homemaking practices that arise out of the “desire to feel at home”, a desire that Anne-Marie Fortier identifies in queer diasporic narratives (1890-90). Accordingly, “trans-domesticity” also registers the affective processes that foster the connectedness and belonging of “home” away from private domestic spaces and places of origin, a “rethinking of the concept of home”, which Ed Madden traces in lesbian and gay migrant narratives (175-77). Building on the assumption of queer diaspora theorists “that not only can one be at home in movement, but that movement can be one’s very own home” (Rapport and Dawson 27), trans-domesticity focuses critical attention on the everyday practices and emotional labour that create a home in transience.As Breakfast on Pluto tracks its transgender protagonist’s movement between a small Irish border town, Northern Ireland, and London, the film invokes both a specifically Irish migration and the broader queer diaspora of which it is a part. While trans-domesticity is a recurring theme across a wide range of queer diasporic narratives, in Breakfast on Pluto it also simultaneously drives the plot and functions as a narrative frame. The film begins and ends with Kitten telling her story as she wanders through the streets of Soho and cares for a member of her made family, her friend Charlie’s baby.Although I am concerned with the film adaptation, Patrick McCabe’s “Prelude” to his novel, Breakfast on Pluto (1998), offers a useful point of departure: Patrick “Pussy” Braden’s dream, “as he negotiates the minefields of this world”, is “ending, once and for all, this ugly state of perpetual limbo” and “finding a map which might lead to that place called home” (McCabe x). In such a place, McCabe’s hero might lay “his head beneath a flower-bordered print that bears the words at last ‘You’re home’”(McCabe xi). By contrast, the film posits that “home” is never a “place” apart from “the minefields of this world”, and that while being in transit and in limbo might be a perpetual state, it is not necessarily an ugly one.Jordan’s film thus addresses the same questions as does Susan Fraiman in her book Extreme Domesticity: “But what about those for whom dislocation is not back story but main event? Those who, having pulled themselves apart, realize no timely arrival at a place of their own, so that being not-unpacked is an ongoing condition?” (155). Through her trans-domestic shelter-making and caregiving practices, Kitten enacts “home” in motion and in public spaces, and thereby realises the elision in the flower-bordered print in McCabe’s “Prelude” (xi), which does not assure “You are at home” but, rather, “You are home”.From Housed to Trans-Domestic SubjectivitySelf and home are equated in the dominant cultural narratives of Western modernity, but “home” in such formulations is assumed to be a self-owned, self-contained space. Psychoanalytic theorist Carl Jung describes this Ur-house as “a concretization of the individuation process, […] a symbol of psychic wholeness” (225). Philosopher Gaston Bachelard sees in the home “the topography of our intimate being”, a structure that “concentrates being within limits that protect” (xxxii). However, as historian Carolyn Steedman suggests, the mythic house that has become “the stuff of our ‘cultural psychology,’ the system of everyday metaphors by which we see ourselves”, is far from universal; rather, it reflects “the topography of the houses” of those who stand “in a central relationship to the dominant culture” (75, 17).For others, the lack of such housing correlates with political marginalisation, as the house functions as both a metaphor and material marker for culturally-recognised selfhood. As cultural geographer John Agnew argues, in capitalist societies the self-owned home is both a sign of autonomous individuality and a prerequisite for full political subjectivity (60). Philosopher Rosi Braidotti asserts that this figuration of subjectivity in “the phallo-Eurocentric master code” treats as “disposable” the “bodies of women, youth, and others who are racialised or marked off by age, gender, sexuality, and income” (6). These bodies are “reduced to marginality” and subsequently “experience dispossession of their embodied and embedded selves, in a political economy of repeated and structurally enforced eviction” (Braidotti 6).To shift the meaning of “home” and the intimately-linked “self” from a privately-owned, autonomous structure to trans-domesticity, to an ethos of care enacted even, and especially in, transient and public spaces, is not to romanticise homelessness or to deny the urgent necessity of material shelter. Breakfast on Pluto certainly does not allow viewers to do either. Rather, the figure of a trans-domestic self, like Braidotti’s “nomadic subject”, has the potential to challenge and transform the terms of power relations. Those now on the margins might then be seen as equally-embodied selves and full political subjects with the right to shelter and care.Such a political project also entails recognising and revaluing—without appropriating and demobilising—existing trans-domesticity. As Fraiman argues, “domesticity” must be “map[ped] from the margins” in order to include the homemaking practices of gender rebels and the precariously housed, of castaways and outcasts (4-5). This alternative map would allow “outsiders to normative domesticity” to “claim domesticity while wrenching it away from such things as compulsory heterosexuality […] and the illusion of a safely barricaded life” (Fraiman 4-5). Breakfast on Pluto shares in this re-mapping work by exposing the violence embedded in heteronormative domestic structures, and by charting the radical political potential of trans-domesticity.Unsettling HousesIn the traditional road narrative, “home” tends to be a static, confining structure from which the protagonist escapes, a space that then functions as “a structuring absence” on the road (Robertson 271). Bachelard describes this normative structure as a “dream house” that constitutes “a body of images that give mankind proofs or illusions of stability” (17); the house functions, Henri Lefebvre argues, as “the epitome of immobility” (92). Whether the dream is to escape and/or to return, “to write of houses”, as Adam Hanna asserts, “is to raise ideas of shelters that are fixed and secure” (113).Breakfast on Pluto quickly gives lie to those expectations. Kitten is adopted by Ma Braden (Ruth McCabe), a single woman who raises Kitten and her adopted sister in domestic space that is connected to, and part of, a public house. That spatial contiguity undermines any illusion of privacy and security, as is evident in the scene in which a school-aged Kitten, who thought herself safely home alone and thus able to dress in her mother’s and sister’s clothes, is discovered in the act by her mother and sister from the pub’s street entrance. Further, the film lays bare the built-in mechanisms of surveillance and violence that reinforce heteronormative, patriarchal structures. After discovering Kitten in women’s clothes, Ma Braden violently scrubs her clean and whacks her with a brush until Kitten says, “I’m a boy, not a girl”. The public/house space facilitates Ma Braden’s close monitoring of Kitten thereafter.As a young writer in secondary school, Kitten satirises the violence within the hegemonic home by narrating the story of the rape of her biological mother, Eily Bergin (Eva Birthistle), by Kitten’s father, Father Liam (Liam Neeson) in a scene of hyper-domesticity set in the rectory kitchen. As Patrick Mullen notes, “the rendition of the event follows the bubble-gum logic and tone of 1950s Hollywood culture” (130). The relationship between the ideal domesticity thereby invoked and the rape then depicted exposes the sexual violence for what it is: not an external violation of the double sanctity of church and home space, but rather an internal and even intrinsic violence that reinforces and is shielded by the power structures from which normative domesticity is never separate.The only sense of home that seems to bind Kitten to her place of origin is based in her affective bonds to friends Charlie (Ruth Negga) and Lawrence (Seamus Reilly). When Lawrence is killed by a bomb, Kitten is no longer at home, and she leaves town to search for the “phantom” mother she never knew. The impetus for Kitten’s wandering, then, is connection rather than autonomy, and neither the home she leaves, nor the sense of home she seeks, are fixed structures.Mobile Homes and Queering of the Western RoadBreakfast on Pluto tracks how the oppositions that seem to structure traditional road films—such as that between home and mobility, and between domestic and open spaces—continually collapse. The film invokes the “cowboy and Indian” mythology from which the Western road narrative descends (Boyle 19), but to different ends: to capture a desire for non-heteronormative affective bonds rather than “lone ranger” autonomy, and to convey a longing for domesticity on the trail, for a home that is both mobile and open. Across the past century of Irish fiction and film, “cowboy and Indian” mythology has often intersected with queer wandering, from James Joyce’s Dubliners story “An Encounter” (1914) to Lenny Abrahamson’s film Adam & Paul (2004). In this tradition, Breakfast on Pluto queers “cowboy and Indian” iconography to convey an alternative conception of domesticity and home. The prevailing ethos in the film’s queered Western scenes is of trans-domesticity—of inclusion and care during transience and in open spaces. After bar bouncers exclude Kitten and friends because of her transgenderism and Lawrence’s Down syndrome, “The Border Knights” (hippie-bikers-cum-cowboys) ride to their rescue and bring them to their temporary home under the stars. Once settled around the campfire, the first biker shares his philosophy with a cuddled-up Kitten: “When I’m riding my hog, you think I’m riding the road? No way, man. I’m travelling from the past into the future with a druid at my back”. “Druid man or woman?” Kitten asks. “That doesn’t matter”, the biker clarifies, “What matters is the journey”. What matters is not place as fixed destination or gender as static difference, but rather the practice of travelling with open relationships to space, to time, and to others. The bikers welcome all to their fire and include both Kitten and Lawrence in their sharing of jokes and joints. The only exclusion is of reference to political violence, which Charlie’s boyfriend, Irwin (Laurence Kinlan), tries to bring into the conversation.Further, Kitten uses domesticity to try to establish a place for herself while on the road with “Billy Hatchett and The Mohawks”, the touring band that picks her up when she leaves Ma Braden’s. As Mullen notes, “Kitten literally works herself into the band by hand sewing a ‘squaw’ outfit to complement the group’s glam-rock Native American image” (Mullen 141). The duet that Kitten performs with Billy (Gavin Friday), a song about a woman inviting “a wandering man” to share the temporary shelter of her campfire, invokes trans-domesticity. But the film intercuts their performance with scenes of violent border-policing: first, by British soldiers at a checkpoint who threaten the group and boast about the “13 less to deal with” in Derry, and then by members of the Republican Prisoners Welfare Association, who throw cans at the group and yell them off stage. A number of critics have noted the postcolonial implications of Breakfast on Pluto’s use of Native American iconography, which in these intercut scenes clearly raises the national stakes of constructions of domestic belonging (see, for instance, Winston 153-71). In complementary ways, the film queers “cowboy and Indian” mythology to reimagine “mobility” and “home” together.After Kitten is forced out by the rest of the band, Billy sets her up in a caravan, a mobile home left to him by his mother. Though Billy “wouldn’t exactly call it a house”, Kitten sees in it her first chance at a Bachelardian “dream house”: she calls it a “house of dreams and longing” and cries, “Oh, to have a little house, to own the hearth, stool, and all”. Kitten ecstatically begins to tidy the place, performing what Fraiman terms a “hyper-investment in homemaking” that functions “as compensation for domestic deprivation” (20).Aisling Cormack suggests that Kitten’s hyper-investment in homemaking signals the film’s “radical disengagement with politics” to a “femininity that is inherently apolitical” (169-70). But that reading holds only if viewers assume a gendered, spatial divide between public and private, and between the political and the domestic. As Fraiman asserts, “the political meaning of fixating on domestic arrangements is more complex […] For the poor or transgendered person, the placeless immigrant or the woman on her own, aspiring to a safe, affirming home doesn’t reinforce hierarchical social relations but is pitched, precisely, against them” (20).Trans-Domesticity as Political ActEven as Kitten invokes the idea of a Bachelardian dream house, she performs a trans-domesticity that exposes the falseness of the gendered, spatial oppositions assumed to structure the normative home. Her domesticity is not an apolitical retreat; rather, it is pitched, precisely, against the violence that public/private and political/domestic oppositions enable within the house, as well as beyond it. As she cleans, Kitten discovers that violence is literally embedded in her caravan home when she finds a cache of Irish Republican Army (IRA) guns under the floor. After a bomb kills Lawrence, Kitten throws the guns into a reservoir, a defiant act that she describes to the IRA paramilitaries who come looking for the guns as “spring cleaning”. Cormack asserts that Kitten “describing her perilous destruction of the guns in terms of domestic labor” strips it “of all political significance” (179). I argue instead that it demonstrates the radical potential of trans-domesticity, of an ethos of care-taking and shelter-making asserted in public and political spaces. Kitten’s act is not apolitical, though it is decidedly anti-violence.From the beginning of Breakfast on Pluto, Kitten’s trans-domesticity exposes the violence structurally embedded in heteronormative domestic ideology. Additionally, the film’s regular juxtaposition of scenes of Kitten’s homemaking practices with scenes of political violence demonstrates that no form of domesticity functions as a private, apolitical retreat from “the minefields of this world” (McCabe x). This latter counterpoint throws into relief the political significance of Kitten’s trans-domesticity. Her domestic practices are her means of resisting and transforming the structural violence that poses an existential threat to marginalised and dispossessed people.After Kitten is accused of being responsible for an IRA bombing in London, the ruthless, violent interrogation of Kitten by British police officers begins to break down her sense of self. Throughout this brutal scene, Kitten compulsively straightens the chairs and tidies the room, and she responds to her interrogators with kindness and even affection. Fraiman’s theorisation of “extreme domesticity” helps to articulate how Kitten’s homemaking in carceral space—she calls it “My Sweet Little Cell”—is an “urgent” act that, “in the wake of dislocation”, can mean “safety, sanity, and self-expression; survival in the most basic sense” (25). Cormack reads Kitten’s reactions in this scene as “masochistic” and the male police officers’ nurturing response as of a piece with the film’s “more-feminine-than-feminine disengagement from political realities” (185-89). However, I disagree: Kitten’s trans-domesticity is a political act that both sustains her within structures that would erase her and converts officers of the state to an ethos of care and shelter. Inspector Routledge, for example, gently carries Kitten back to her cell, and after her release, PC Wallis ensures that she is safely (if not privately) housed with a cooperatively-run peep show, the address at which an atoning Father Liam locates her in London.After Kitten and a pregnant Charlie are burned out of the refuge that they temporarily find with Father Liam, Kitten and Charlie return to London, where Charlie’s baby is born soon after into the trans-domesticity that opens the film. Rejoining the story’s frame, Breakfast on Pluto ends close to where it begins: Kitten and the baby meet Charlie outside a London hospital, where Kitten sees Eily Bergin with her new son, Patrick. Instead of meeting where their paths intersect, the two families pass each other and turn in opposite directions. Kitten now knows that hers is both a different road and a different kind of home. “Home”, then, is not a place gained once and for all. Rather, home is a perpetual practice that does not separate one from the world, but can create the shelter of mutual care as one wanders through it.The Radical Potential and Structural Limits of Trans-DomesticityBreakfast on Pluto demonstrates the agency that trans-domesticity can afford in the lives of marginalised and dispossessed individuals, as well as the power of the structures that militate against its broader realisation. The radical political potential of trans-domesticity manifests in the transformation in the two police officers’ relational practices. Kitten’s trans-domesticity also inspires a reformation in Father Liam, the film’s representative of the Catholic Church and a man whose relationship to others transmutes from sexual violence and repressive secrecy to mutual nurturance and inclusive love. Although these individual conversions do not signify changes in structures of power, they do allow viewers to imagine the possibility of a state and a church that cherish, shelter, and care for all people equally. The film’s ending conveys this sense of fairy-tale-like possibility through its Disney-esque chattering birds and the bubble-gum pop song, “Sugar Baby Love”.In the end, the sense of hopefulness that closes Breakfast on Pluto coexists with the reality that dominant power structures will not recognise Kitten’s trans-domestic subjectivity and family, and that those structures will work to contain any perceived threat, just as the Catholic Church banishes the converted Father Liam to Kilburn Parish. That Kitten and Charlie nevertheless realise a clear contentment in themselves and in their made family demonstrates the vital importance of trans-domesticity and other forms of “extreme domesticity” in the lives of those who wander.ReferencesAgnew, John. “Home Ownership and Identity in Capitalist Societies.” Housing and Identity: Cross Cultural Perspectives. Ed. James S. Duncan. New York: Holmes and Meier, 1982. 60–97.Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1957. Trans. Maria Jolas. 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