In the past I have talked about trigger warnings and my stance on them—not only as a writer, but as an audience member. And as of this blog post, I still—more or less—stand by those thoughts. And on a somewhat related topic (though, not directly related), I’ll add one thing more to the conversation: I actually think we need trauma in our stories.
A strange thing to say, I know. Especially to anyone who has experienced trauma in their lifetime. Now, I don’t necessarily mean that people who have survived a difficult and/or horrific situation should be forced to relive it over and over again in the media they consume. On the contrary, I think they have every right to avoid that entirely. What I am saying, in this instance, is that we should avoid forgetting the fact that storytelling is very much about empathy; about putting yourself in someone else’s shoes and walking around for a bit.
I’m going to remain vague here, partly because I’m trying to keep this website as family friendly as possible, and partly because—since I normally wouldn’t broach this kind of subject anyway, especially due to the former reason—if I was being specific, this is a point where I would add a trigger warning. Let’s just say, I’m going to talk about the thing all women fear happening to them, even just a little bit in the back of their minds, every day of their lives.
I’m currently reading the second book in The Fionavar Tapestry, which has quickly become my new favorite book series. Written in the mid-80s, it’s a classic example of the conventional, Tolkien-inspired high fantasy novels of that era. It is also, therefore, of a time long before our own era of trigger warnings, political correctness, and concerns for mental wellbeing.
At some point in the series, one of the main characters experiences the thing that all women fear happening to them. The author, thankfully, does not go into graphic detail, but it is clear to the reader what is going on. It is also revealed at this point that it’s not the first time this has happened to her, either.
My immediate reaction while reading this particular scene, as I mentioned, was gratefulness that the author refrained from going into detail. Because why would I want to read about this thing that I, as someone feminine-of-center, have feared—even just a little bit—every day of my life since childhood? Why would anyone want to read or observe that—graphic or not?
It took me back to a critique I picked up from some avid reader forum somewhere online: perhaps writers shouldn’t even broach these subjects at all: these triggering subjects. These traumatic, difficult, horrific subjects. Maybe writers should steer clear of them entirely, because—again—why would we want to read about / watch these kinds of things?
But then I think about Maya Angelou, and her autobiography, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. This is a book that has been frequently banned and challenged since its publication for its definitely graphic depictions of this same kind of violence (and for other—white fragility—reasons, of course). And if that wasn’t horrifying enough, it all happened to her when she was a kid.
As someone who recently read the book, I can say with confidence that it was a difficult thing to get through, even without having experienced that kind of trauma myself. Again, when thinking about it, I would ask myself why. Why would I, or anyone else for that matter, want to read this?
But the cruel irony of her book—and other such books—being banned is, of course, that it’s not just about those of us who bothered to pick up and read it in the first place. It’s about the people who didn’t. When asked about the constant bans and challenges, Angelou herself reportedly said: “the unspeakable is far more dangerous when left unspoken.” To put it another way, the things we willfully ignore are the things that continue to happen; the things we refuse to hold under a microscope are the things many of us allow ourselves to deny are even real.
Traumatic things in art and media not only give those who have experienced them a chance to see how they have been wronged (if they didn’t already know) and speak out; they give those who haven’t experienced them a chance to empathize. I doubt an exact study has been done on this subject—and I also doubt it would be easy to truly measure, even if it had—but could you imagine the kind of person who would commit such unforgivable atrocities doing so if they had been exposed from adolescence to personal, and even fictional, stories of the damage caused by them? If they’d had a moment or two when they stepped into the shoes of a person who struggled to survive and move on?
I’ve said it before, and I may as well say it again: I am no psychologist. Take my perspective on this with a grain of salt and do what you need to do to protect your own mental health. But also bear in mind that exposure to stories, to other points of view, is not just about you. It’s about everyone—and it has, at the very least, been shown that people who read more have a greater tendency toward empathy. But how can we have the chance to empathize if our stories begin glossing over the hard stuff? How can we get something out of walking a mile in another person’s shoes if that mile is just flat, barren land, without hills to climb and rivers to cross and obstacles to get through?
I’m going to show my age a little bit here with my Kids today… vibe, but I truly do fear for the emotional development of young people these last couple generations or so. There was a time when parents were concerned that traumatic stuff would desensitize kids. But now, I think we have created an environment where kids can’t take anything because we’ve been shielding them from the hard stuff their whole lives. Not to say they’re “too sensitive”—despite popular belief, there is nothing wrong with being sensitive. No, I think the problem is that young people are growing up holding onto a belief that life should be all sunshine and butterflies and puppy dogs and sooner or later they inevitably find out it’s not, and it breaks them. I would go so far as to say it drives them mad. As someone who is half mad themselves at this point, I can attest to it. But the bigger issue, as Maya stated, is that current generations have stopped standing up to the darkness in this world because they just can’t grasp that it’s there. They haven’t had a chance to feel it, even on a smaller scale.
I didn’t like reading about that character going through the thing all women fear happening to them—but I like seeing her strength and resilience in the aftermath of it, and I like knowing that anyone else who reads her story will also feel for her like I do. I like knowing that readers who have experienced their own trauma at any kind of level can be connected to each other through her story. And I especially like seeing there’s another side to it. That it is possible to experience something so horrific and still find a way to live, in spite of the darkness. I certainly cannot speak for all readers, but I personally need that sometimes—and I think others can benefit from it, too. But we can only get to the light by going through that darkness first.
Night Owls, what are your thoughts on traumatic experiences in fiction? Do you prefer trigger warnings, or do you dislike them?
