First Test

People have been telling me for years that I ought to read Tamora Pierce, and I finally have. I've read the first three books in her Protector of the Small series (First Test, Page, and Squire), and I'm looking forward to reading the fourth (Lady Knight).

I was really impressed by the way Pierce uses a fantasy setting to address real-world issues like sexism, bullying, institutional hazing, and the code of silence that so often unites young people against adult authority figures. Keladry of Mindelan, a remarkable 10-year-old, is the only girl in a school full of boys training as pages, the first step toward becoming a knight. Kel must cope with hostility from many of her teachers as well as from her peers: the training master has made no secret of his belief that women have no place at the school. Kel spends her first year of training "on probation," a restriction imposed on no other student.

Kel's early training as the daughter of a diplomat allows her to remain calm and expressionless even when her fellow-students jeer and laugh at her. "I am stone," she tells herself, refusing to be goaded into an emotional display that would only reinforce the men's conviction that a woman doesn't have what it takes to be a successful knight. Although her classmates nickname her "the Lump," she ultimately wins their respect not only for her fighting skills but for her sense of justice. She challenges the bullying that others have accepted as part of school life, but she doesn't merely protect those who are weak and small; she teaches them to defend themselves.

What confuses me is how Pierce fans respond to my choice of First Test for last month's meeting. "Why did you start with that?" they want to know, their voices dripping with disgust. "You should have read Alanna." Sometimes it's another series, Beka Cooper or Circle of Magic, but the majority of protestors have named Alanna and the Wild Magic books. "Kel is so boring. She doesn't even have any magic."

As I said, Protector of the Small is the only series I've read, so I can't comment on the others. For all I know, I might prefer Wild Magic; that's not really the issue. Why do they seem so angry, so personally insulted by my choice of book, especially when they admire the author so much?

I've come up with a few reasons for their reaction:

Chronology: Alanna's series takes place earlier; in fact, Alanna's struggle to become a knight while disguised as a boy forces the king to recognize that girls should be given equal opportunity. Kel's story begins with Alanna's discovery that she will not be allowed to help the young girl on her journey to becoming a knight; like Alanna, Kel will have to find her own way. I've noticed that fans can be very rigid about the order in which books SHOULD be read.

Impatience: First Test is the only book by Tamora Pierce we've scheduled for this year. Perhaps the protestors are disappointed that they'll have to wait a long while before we'll get around to the Pierce book they prefer.

The Paradox of the Series: Series are popular because when readers find a book they really love, they want to read more of the same. At the same time, they're very critical of writers who repeat the same story over and over. I got the impression that some readers felt that Kel was too different from Alanna, far less fiery and impulsive and therefore "boring." At the same time, they'd already seen the story of a young girl fighting for acceptance among the male warriors; why rehearse it again? It's difficult to satisfy readers who want "the same thing only different" from their favorite authors.

These all make sense, but I'm afraid there may be one more reason, one that I find particularly disturbing. From what I've seen of her in Protector of the Small, Alanna prefers to meet every challenge by confronting it immediately and head-on. When she's angry, people know it, and she wins the respect of her opponents at the point of a sword. Kel, on the other hand, plays the long game. She's willing to work slowly to solve a problem, and she shows surprising grace and tact in resolving problems with friends and enemies alike. Her cool judgment and ability to act wisely in a crisis shows that she can be a strong leader in peacetime as well as in conflict.

Do readers prefer Alanna to Kel because fighting for a quick fix is more appealing than working slowly toward a long-term solution? Have they decided that patience and tact are outdated, boring, and stereotypically feminine?

Hillary Clinton's run for the presidency has provoked a number of questions about women's ability to lead, and Sen. Clinton has responded by emphasizing her qualifications as Commander-in-Chief. She's focused on issues of personal strength and military engagements, but what about diplomacy and statesmanship? Obama speaks often of the need to reconcile (liberals and conservatives, the U.S. and other nations); is Clinton afraid that she'll seem weak if she talks about reconciliation instead of military solutions? Can there be authority without violence?

My final question applies as much to Senator Clinton as it does to Alanna and Kel: Does a woman have to fight to be taken seriously?

Violence in Harry Potter

I was talking the other day with a friend who was concerned about the violence in the final Harry Potter book. "I understand that there's a war going on between good and evil," she said, "but I just don't know if nine-year-olds should be reading such violent scenes."

I found myself flashing back to my days as a drama major at the University of Georgia when Matt Williams came to talk to the students about the film industry. Williams is probably best known for creating and producing hit shows like Roseanne and Home Improvement, but at the time I met him he was still writing for The Cosby Show.

Williams told us a story about a screenplay he was very proud of but couldn't seem to sell. He saw it as a heartwarming story about the close relationship between a boy and a dog, but nobody wanted to make the movie because it was "too violent." Williams couldn't believe it. He'd written a sweet story about a dog who dies, but it was considered too violent to commit to film, even though the most popular show on TV at the time was Miami Vice, which featured a weekly body count higher than that of the average Shakespearean tragedy.

We measure violence, Williams concluded, by how much we care about the victims. Every week, Miami Vice casually dispatched scores of villains we'd made no investment in, so their passing was unimportant, even comic: "BAM! BAM! Cancel this man's dinner reservation. Come on, Tubbs, let's go." But the death of one dog was meaningful because Williams had spent an entire screenplay developing the audience's relationship with this character.

Is Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows violent? Yes, no question. There are ambushes, attacks, duels, and at least two major battle scenes I can think of. But Rowling is never, EVER casual about death, even when it comes to characters who aren't particularly likable. The violence is never random but always placed in the larger context of war between good and evil. As Harry learns in Order of the Phoenix, it is not easy to use an Unforgivable Curse to kill or torture another living being; you have to mean it. Only completely evil characters, like Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange, are careless about inflicting pain.

On the other hand, characters demonstrate their courage and nobility by the way they respond to pain and suffering, and most of those who die in this series are prepared to accept this consequence for their actions. Rowling herself has said that each of the characters is defined by his or her attitude toward death. For example, in Prisoner of Azkaban, when Peter Pettigrew protests that he had no choice but to betray Harry's parents because Voldemort threatened to kill him, Sirius Black thunders, "Then you should have died!" In a quieter moment in Order of the Phoenix, Sirius insists again, "There are things worth dying for," which gives the readers some comfort in his death. Sirius dies as he surely would have chosen to, defying Voldemort and protecting Harry. It is significant that the character who fears death most is the supreme villain.

There is no question that the Harry Potter books contain violence; no series so preoccupied with death could avoid it. But Rowling has worked hard to develop a completely believable world peopled with characters we know and love (or love to hate). When death comes to characters in whom we have made such a great investment, we can't shrug it off. We have to grapple with the concepts of mortality and grief, but also with the necessity of courage, the power of love, and the persistence of hope.

By confronting young readers with death and challenging them to think about its meaning, Rowling does not glorify violence; instead, she celebrates the significance of each individual life.