How a fictional world governed by archaic values sparks thought about progressive masculinity
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(Warning: This post contains spoilers for those that have not viewed the “Game of Thrones” television series in its entirety)
I read the fantasy series “A Song of Ice and Fire” long before the mega-success of HBO’s television adaptation “Game of Thrones” made it socially acceptable for me to obsess over wizards, dragons, and zombies. I didn’t make it through the books without some hesitations, however. I agree that its author George R.R. Martin has incredible talent, but he also has some writing tendencies that frustrate my race and gender sensibilities.
On race, I was consistently bothered by the descriptions of the darker-skinned peoples; they’re repeatedly described as having skin as “black as ink” or “tar,” or more curtly as “mongrels.” On gender, my primary beef was with Martin’s preoccupation with rape. In my opinion, these incessant rape scenes go needlessly beyond establishing the climate of Martin’s world. If I’ve misremembered the actual text here, this only goes to show just how much these storytelling practices colored my reading experience.
However, since finishing the books, I’ve had many conversations with other fans, ones which led me to give Martin the benefit of the doubt for his narrative choices. For example, no less than a professor on race and gender told me that she viewed the many references to rape not as gratuitous, but as one of Martin’s tools for identifying the “bad guys.” She also schooled me on the idea that the series was gender progressive in that most of the male characters come to revolve around strong female characters as the story progresses. I can see this and admit that perhaps I underestimated Martin’s command of his archaic universe to make statements about social justice.
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In retrospect, I recognize that even I probably stuck with this massive book series (five books long, each novel a relative tome in itself) because it had some grand things to say about my personal journey to improve as a man. I found that many of its male characters embodied the same insecurity I struggle with. These characters were well suited to provoke thought in a man spending time questioning what it means to be a “good” man.
In reading, I compared myself to Lord Eddard Stark, the epitome of honor whose devotion to duty eventually facilitated his own demise (side note: those who cite Ned’s sexual infidelity as a break in his honor should know that there are some plausible theories that defend even his extramarital affair as a noble act). I wondered how confident I was in my own ability to act gallantly when nobody is watching and to what extent my pursuit of “honor” might sometimes harm me or those around me.
Later, I feared that I could also see myself in Joffrey Baratheon. I pray that I would survive with some empathy intact if I was afforded unbridled privilege and power, but I don’t honestly know how I would do in a king’s shoes. I know that my perceived lack of privilege as an African-American has afforded me insight into the privilege that I possess as a heterosexual male, but maybe I would otherwise be blind to the concept.
Perhaps Joffrey’s protector Sandor Clegane evokes the stronger echoes of my personal journey. I might be capable of great deeds if I were not beholden to lords that ordered me in destructive directions. I have certainly served many “lords” in pursuing societal definitions of manhood, and it took distance from them for me to realize that I should have some say in crafting my own picture of who I was meant to be.
Ultimately, I think that it is Jaime Lannister that best reflects my relationship with manhood. In the name of living up to cultural expectations and personal allegiances, I’ve done many things of which I am not proud. It causes me little rest to know that many of these acts were done with the best of intentions—some for honor, some for love, and some for respect. Peace can only be found in the knowledge that much of my story remains unwritten.
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Beyond all of its varied representations of manhood, “Game of Thrones” does offer a simplicity that I admire. There is some appeal to the idea that I could join some knightly order and read a few vows/rules of manhood to live by, warned with the knowledge that someone could ship me off to the north if I failed to live up to them. In the world that I live in, manhood is fluid. There are no rock-solid gatekeepers of “true” masculinity. It’s a world where practices such as holding doors open for women are entirely expected of men among one crowd and vehemently hated by another. The good news is that with fluidity comes freedom. We often feel that we are powerless to affect the struggle for manhood as the lords of media, history, and status fight their battles with little regard for common man. But we all have a role to play in carving out personal ideals for manhood—a lesson that I learn again every day.
This “real world” has its own advantages. Here, we can come to learn that our character is not determined by an external author— it’s in our hands to control. I am thankful for making this realization, as not all men do. Plus, I can enjoy the comforts of indoor plumbing, contemporary notions of equality, and the knowledge that there’s little chance of being eaten by a dragon when we step outside.
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Photo AP/HBO Nick Briggs
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