As the concept for Collaborators took shape, I realized that one of the key issues was power: power that comes from advanced technology, power that comes from military superiority, power that comes from idealism, power that comes from love, and power that comes from political advantage. But also and especially, power that relates to gender. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible to address the issues of power without talking about gender.
People – that is, we Terran-humans -- often confuse
gender, sex, and sexual orientation. Sex identification arises from biology,
and most of us are either male or female genetically and phenotypically. That
is, we possess either XX or XY chromosomes, and our genitals conform to the
norm. These are not the only possibilities (you can have XXX or XXY, for
example) and problems arise from the societal demand that every person fit into
one or the other category. This has nothing to do with “masculine” and
“feminine,” which are cultural interpretations, or with who a given individual
is sexually attracted to. The binary division of male and female, while
appropriate for many people, does not work for everyone.
Gender, on the other hand, has to do with how you
experience yourself, a personal sense of being a man or a woman (or both, or
neither). Each of these is distinct from sexual orientation, which has to do
with an enduring physical, romantic, and emotional attraction to another
person. Gender has been described as "who you want to go to bed as, not
who you want to go to bed with."
A few years ago, I attended a workshop at the Ben Lomond
Quaker Center on "Gender, the Search for Self and the Search for
Acceptance," facilitated by Chloe Schwenke, an ethicist who is herself a
transgendered woman. Although much of the workshop centered on personal issues
of gender and identity, it struck me that as a writer, I discover much depth
and richness by asking the same questions.
In science fiction and fantasy, we have been playing
around with such notions as more than two sexes/genders, none, fluid
sexes/genders, and a diversity of gender role expressions. Every so often, a
story that takes a new or not-new-but-splashy look at the field garners a lot
of buzz, particularly in the queer and queer-friendly community. Yet much genre
writing continues to perpetuate the world view of two oppositional and fixed
genders, each with equally unyielding behavioral expectations. For many writers
and readers, a character or society that goes too far outside the familiar
becomes so uncomfortable as to fracture sympathetic identification. It strikes
me, however, that even within the limitations of conventional portrayals of sex
and gender, we can reach for greater depth. We can go beyond the Caveman Model
of Gender Roles, the Separatist All-Men or All-Women Worlds, the
Rambo-in-Drag/Supersensitive Male dichotomies and other variations already done
to death.
To give you an idea what I'm talking about, here are some questions from the workshop. I've rephrased them to apply to characters, rather than personally.
To give you an idea what I'm talking about, here are some questions from the workshop. I've rephrased them to apply to characters, rather than personally.
- How does your character know "what" that person is? What feelings, sensibilities, and other forms of awareness (other than simple body awareness) most make that person feel male, female, or somewhere in between?
- Can you describe your character in non-gendered terms?
- Does gender influence the spirituality of your character? How?
- Has your character experienced a dissonance between what is expected and what was felt internally? How does the character deal with this tension? How does the character's sense of integrity and honesty affect the response?
- How does this character (and the surrounding culture) consider the issues of equality and fairness between the masculine, feminine and androgynous?
- How does the character's experience of gender affect the perception of the Divine, either within or outside the cultural norm?
In writing Collaborators,
I wanted to create a resonance between the tensions arising from First Contact
and those arising from differences in gender and gender expectations. It seemed
to me that one of the most important things we notice about another human being
is whether they are of “our” gender. What if the native race did not divide
themselves into (primarily) two genders? How would that work – biologically? romantically?
socially? politically? How would it affect the division of labor? child-rearing?
How would Terran-humans understand or misinterpret a race for whom every other
age-appropriate person is a potential lover and life-mate? Not only that, but
in a life-paired couple, each is equally likely to engender or gestate a child.
For the sake of linguistic simplicity, I adopted the
convention of using the masculine pronoun as the generic universal for my alien
race. Here’s the opening scene:
Hayke and his two children had carried blankets out to
the hills beyond their farm near the Erlind border. They lay back, eating
leftover potato rolls while the light faded from the sky. Early summer heat
hung in the air, sweet with the smell of the ripening hay. The world softened
into shadow, tone upon tone of layered gray except for the ghostly white of
Hayke’s fur. Night-hoppers chittered. The grass rustled with the passage of a
snake.
Torrey, the older child, had been out in the fields
all day. Sun had bleached the downy fur on his face to platinum, probably his
last season of that pure, shimmering color. He was growing fast. Little Felde
played his pipe to any living thing that would sit still and listen.
Slowly the first pale stars emerged: the Archer, the
Water-Dove, the Serpent, which Wayfolk called the Grommet. Felde loved hearing
the story of the little grommet who sang such wonderful music to the stars that
when he died, they could not bear to lose him. Torrey insisted he was too old
for such tales. Tonight he was hunting other quarry in the skies.
Hayke, lying back on the blanket and gazing up at the
stars, felt an absurd sense of tenderness. He loved both his children, but Felde,
the one he had not carried...Felde was special. Perhaps because Felde was the
last child he and Rosen would ever have, perhaps because it was Rosen who had
borne him... Loss, still poignant after five years, pulsed through Hayke.
“There it is!” Torrey pointed to the northeast at the
unwinking mote of light.
“Sharp eyes,” Hayke said.
Felde snuggled close, curling his arms around Hayke’s
chest. “Are they really people from another star?”
“That’s what they say, little one.”
“Adso says it’s all an Erlind plot,” Torrey said. Adso
was fourteen and Torrey’s closest friend.
“I’m not saying Adso’s wrong-minded,” said Hayke, “but
imagine if you’d never set foot off this farm, never seen anything but hens and
woolies, and then one day someone told you about the great capital city of
Miraz. Thousands of people, all eight clans living together in one place.
Towers and bridges and museums. Trams and temples. You’d think he was making it
up—”
“I’d think his brains were corked!”
“But he’d be telling the truth, wouldn’t he?” said
Hayke.
“Dim-Dim, what’s corked?” Felde piped up.
Torrey choked on his own laughter. Hayke hushed him.
Felde lifted his head. “I’d like to meet the star
people.”
“You, grub?” Torrey said. “What would you do if you
did meet one? Run away howling?”
After a moment, when the night had fallen quiet again
and the stars seemed even closer, Felde said in his child’s voice, “Do you know
what I’d do if I met the star people, Dimmie?”
“No, little one. What would you do?”
“I’d play my music for them.”
Hayke tightened his arms around Felde, felt the
child’s bones like a delicate sculpture, the heartbeat soft and light against
his own. His crest fluttered. He had no words for how very precious this child
was to him. Rosen...Rosen would have loved him very much.
He wished with all his
heart that Rosen had lived to see this night, this unwavering star of hope.
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