Realist Representation is Overrated: Reviewing “Cinderella is Dead” by Kalynn Bayron
How old were you the first time you saw yourself in a book?
Not as a minor character. Not a poorly fleshed-out love interest. Not a quirky best friend or an unsympathetic villain.
The Protagonist.
For me, it was age 14, and the book was Arundhati Roy’s debut novel, The God of Small Things; for too many readers, the answer is older still - if there’s an answer at all.
Historically, when it comes to representation, YA fiction has tended to hit the same wall as much adult fiction in centring the struggle attached to marginalised identities.
Obviously, this is not an inherently bad thing: young people deserve to have access to age-appropriate literature that reflects their own experiences, addressing the challenges they encounter in their real lives. That said, this sort of realist representation can be incredibly limiting - we see the way LGBT teen fiction gets hung up on the coming out narrative, as in Becky Albertalli’s Simon VS The Homo Sapiens Agenda; Angie Thomas’ The Hate U Give follows protagonist Starr struggling with her racial identity after witnessing the murder of her childhood friend at the hands of a white police officer.
To reiterate, I don’t want to undermine the value of these stories and perspectives, both for the readers that can relate to them and the readers that can learn from them - and if you need proof of the necessity of books like The Hate U Give, I direct you to the ‘Parents Review’ page on Common Sense Media for full-grown adults complaining about the lack of alternative perspectives on the multifaceted issue of police killing children (and hats off to the man who took the time to record all 90 uses of the word “fuck”, going on to suggest that such profanity weakened the message that racialised police brutality is a bad thing).
Indeed, given that my own adolescence saw the rise of the Teen Paranormal Romance Novel - a sub-genre that broke new ground in presenting interspecies relationships as more palatable than interracial relationships - seeing any kind of thoughtful representation gracing the YA bestsellers chart is a breath of fresh air that gives me hope for the next generation.
However,
When the only stories you get to see yourself in revolve around the struggles that are specific to the marginalised community(ies) you are a part of, it sends the harmful and reductive message that your identity is subsumed under your struggle. In turn, Kalynn Bayron makes a vital addition to YA fiction in Cinderella is Dead, exemplifying how familiar narratives can incorporate and celebrate diverse characters in new and engaging ways.
Bayron revisits the iconic fairytale 200 years after Happily Ever After : Cinderella is long dead, but her “palace-approved” story is very much alive for the people of Mersailles under the rule of the ruthless King Manford, descendant of Prince Charming himself. By royal decree, every girl in the kingdom must attend the king’s ball from the age of 16, where their fates will be determined by the eligible suitors of the land at the stroke of midnight, either “chosen” for marriage, or “forfeit” in disgrace.
Dismayed by her downtrodden yet complacent peers, Sophia Grimmins longs for a chance to change the story for herself, the girl she loves, and the rest of the women in Lille. When desperation mounts on the night of the ball, she takes matters into her own hands, setting out on a journey to write her own ending. Accompanied by fellow victims of Manford’s tyranny - Constance, the knife-wielding descendant of Cinderella’s villainised step-sister on a mission to avenge her family’s legacy, and Amina, the short-tempered and reclusive “fairy godmother” living in self-imposed exile - Sophia uncovers the harrowing truth behind Cinderella’s story and the darkness at the heart of the kingdom, in a novel that delights in stripping away the comforts of a beloved childhood story, and disarms the reader at every turn.
While many would argue that the YA dystopian genre died around the time that its authors abandoned writing nuanced sociopolitical commentary in favour of knocking off The Hunger Games in efforts to replicate its commercial success (sweet irony), Kalynn Bayron brings something new to the table in Cinderella is Dead. Here, the classic Cinderella tale is elevated to a sort of religious text for the people of Mersailles, both informing and justifying the laws that govern the kingdom, while rendering any sort of challenge to the official story essentially blasphemous. Girls are expected to study and memorise the sanitised, “Palace-Approved” text, which presents Cinderella as the aspirational epitome of beauty, grace and humility, on the basis that they should follow her example in order to be “chosen” - as Sophia’s friend reminds her: “If we are diligent, if we know the passages, if we honor our fathers, we might be granted the things Cinderella was.”
If the delivery is a touch heavy-handed, nevertheless, beneath her draconian fairytale society Bayron makes an incisive and timely commentary on the real-world impact of the stories we (re)tell on women and girls, and particularly those who are so seldom represented in these stories: Sophia’s inability to fit into the heteronormative narrative that governs her society literally puts her life in danger.
The novel reads like a satirical clapback to every ‘chill, it’s just a book - it’s not that deep’, dramatising the consequences of taking that kind of cavalier attitude towards the media we consume.
As far as representation in Cinderella is Dead goes, while the author leaves no room for ambiguity as to Sophia’s race in her physical descriptions, the fact of her blackness is in no way central to the storyline outside of the ways in which she does not resemble Cinderella: the woman doing her hair for the ball remarks that they should straighten her natural curls; a girl at the ball mocks her for imitating Cinderella (though this comes off as classism more than anything). Rather, Bayron eschews race relation commentary in favour of emphasising unity and empathy between women, regardless of background, presenting divisions like class as tools of the patriarchal system that serve to distract women from the ways in which they are all oppressed under Manford’s rule, as Sophia effectively sums up:
“Money won’t keep your future husband from using you as he sees fit. And your privilege won’t keep you safe. You and I are exactly the same in the eyes of the king and the suitors.”
Similarly, Bayron establishes Sophia’s sexuality in the first chapter of the novel. Her feelings for her best friend, Erin, constantly war with her frustration at Erin’s inability to imagine a real future for them together outside of Manford’s laws, providing a direct contrast with wilful Constance, who has rejected the trappings of society entirely in the pursuit of revenge and freedom. While you could argue that Sophia’s queerness is significant to the novel’s plot in that her inability to be with the girl she loves under the king’s laws certainly provides a motive for wanting to overthrow the system in place, the author stresses how the system disadvantages all women, stripping them of rights and personhood, and forcing many into loveless, abusive marriages. In turn, Sophia’s ingrained hatred of injustice and stubborn compassionate streak - inherited from her outspoken grandmother - come across as more obvious motivations for her actions.
If we’re talking about tropes in YA queer rep, it’s not entirely accurate to say that Bayron moves beyond the coming out narrative, in that Mersailles’ restrictive laws make secrecy a matter of personal safety. That said, Sophia is out to the people who are most important to her before the events of the book begin (neatly swerving that potential storyline). While her parents do express their concern for her well-being, given the danger posed by being a lesbian in an oppressively heteronormative society, there is no indication of actual homophobia on their part - indeed, when that danger is quashed as the novel’s conclusion sees the king’s regime overthrown, they appear proud of Sophia and supportive of her blossoming relationship with Constance.
Now, in the interest of total honesty, my first response to Cinderella is Dead was a little conflicted. Despite my conviction that characters of colour deserve narrative arcs that don’t revolve around racism, the absence of racism in a story that is so pointedly not apolitical - addressing sexism, homophobia and class oppression - felt conspicuous, veering into ‘colour-blind casting’ territory (which is itself a complex and contentious subject deserving of its own essay).
However, sitting with that discomfort meant confronting my own impulse to politicise marginalised identities, and acknowledging that there is an important difference between a group of white creatives congratulating themselves for ‘diversity’ after mindlessly casting a person of colour in a role that was obviously not written for them, and a black author’s decision not to write racism into the fabric of her own fantasy world.
Moreover, I recognise that I’m reading the novel as an adult, with different tastes and a different relationship with my own racial identity than my teenage self: while I tend to favour intimate explorations of identity and race in my reading choices now, as a teen I would have been more than satisfied to read about a diverse trio of snarky misfits trekking through the forest on a quest to overthrow a misogynistic tyrant.
If anything, the success of Cinderella is Dead indicates a growing space for both sober realism and escapist fantasy within inclusive YA fiction. Commercially speaking, books that deal in the harsher realities of marginalisation like The Hate U Give pave the way for storytellers like Kalynn Bayron to decentre that trauma. It’s that bigoted old chestnut about requiring a “reason” for diverse characters to exist in a narrative - if your marginalised character isn’t overtly experiencing that marginalisation in the foreground of the plot then what’s the “use” of their inclusion?
This line of thinking - though repugnant - does raise an important question about the audience being served by this type of fiction. The didactic lens through which we tend to view books marketed towards children and teenagers places an emphasis on the “educational value” of diverse narratives - and not without reason, being that numerous studies have made the link between reading fiction and an increased capacity for empathy. Reading from the perspective of another person is just about the closest you can get to stepping into someone else’s shoes, making literature an appealing educational tool.
However, the notion of ‘education’ is by its very nature othering: when we frame a book’s primary purpose as educational, we are, by definition, appealing to a readership that cannot relate to its themes. In centring a privileged (read: white/straight/cis/able-bodied) audience, criticism overlooks the ways in which these stories are serving the communities they are written about.
In turn, while there is a sense of solidarity and validation to be found in realist works (doubling as educational for other readers), that’s not to say that there isn’t equal value in fantasy; in stories that centre adventure and friendship and romance and joy, as Bayron maintains in Cinderella is Dead.
To be sure, the novel is not without its faults: where the dialogue is sharp and witty, Sophia’s internal monologue often feels a little flat and simplistic; the pacing has the final confrontation arriving too quickly after the initiating conflict when I want to spend more time with the secondary characters whom I love.
But speaking candidly, I became willing to overlook my own pedantry pretty much the moment I read:
“my skin shines, brown and beautiful, free from rouge or powder.”
Because, ultimately - for all of the novel’s pedagogical and stylistic shortcomings - Kalynn Bayron never loses sight of her audience in Cinderella is Dead. Her acute awareness of the impact of representation on the most basic levels of storytelling serves to reinforce the message that escapism shouldn’t be a privilege.