Oftentimes, cliche tropes and stereotypes stem from a certain narrative repeated over and over again. These tropes are instilled all around us. From movies and TV shows to different types of literature, we are constantly surrounded by certain depictions of people and places.
However, the line between a fun, light-hearted joke and a harmful reoccurring stereotype can quite easily be crossed due to this notion of a “single story.”
Novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie discusses the concept and its consequences in her 2009 TED Talk. But, before getting into its dangers, what is a single story?
A single story is the reiteration of a portrayal of a person, collective or place that is one-dimensional. This perspective takes one aspect of a situation and defines it as the sole “truth” with no complexity to it. It fails to acknowledge any experience or stance outside the one it states and, therefore, produces said dangers.
On the basis of an extremely simple and watered-down narrative, it creates harmful stereotypes and forms biases.
Within her presentation, Adichie speaks on a past roommate’s single story of Africa. She explains how this roommate saw the continent as a “story of catastrophe,” stating the following:
“In this single story, there was no possibility of Africans being similar to her in any way, no possibility of feelings more complex than pity, no possibility of a connection as human equals,” she said.
Her TED Talk also touches on additional dangers of a single story, some of which include robbing people of their dignity, associating communities with certain traits that ignore differences within the collective, and the grave misunderstandings that stereotypes bring forth.
These one-dimensional and repeated narratives rampantly exist for the LGBTQ+ community in various ways, but primarily in the “bury your gays” trope. In this single story, existing in both fictional mediums (novels, movies, TV shows) as well as the news cycle, queer and trans individuals are constantly shown to be facing some type of extreme violence and/or death.
When only a particular depiction is emphasized, it has the ability to create some type of prophecy; one feels they can only end up as only what they have been shown time and time again.
And when something opposing the single story is seen, it is deemed unfathomable.
For example, this TikTok shows gay and transgender content creator, Rene, reacting to a comment left on his previous video regarding his grey hair. The comment stated, “I’ve never seen a trans person who has grey hair. We get to live that long. Wow.”
This is just one of many examples of the lasting, profound and deeply negative impacts of a single story, where seeing signs of aging in a trans person is something so moving and significant.
Despite the persistence and prevalence of the single story, several creators are using their work to fight and overcome it.
Here are three of several diverse authors who have used their lived experiences and the intersectionalities of their identities to oppose the narrative they have spent so long hearing.
This is Only Temporary by Téa Mutonji
In her short story collection, Shut Up, You’re Pretty, Canadian writer and poet Téa Mutonji writes from the perspective of Loli, a Congolese immigrant in Canada. The book covers a period in which Loli grows into adulthood and addresses topics such as race, mental health as well as illnesses, sexual identity, experimentation and more.
One of the short stories within this collection, titled “This is Only Temporary,” surrounds the death of Darnell, a gay boy who was beaten to death in his Scarborough hometown. The opening scene starts with members of his community, including the protagonist, watching the news coverage of the death.
Multiple lines start with the phrase, “We heard that,” followed by incessant stereotypical depictions of their area and community. It showcases the single story the public and media have on this Scarborough community: “We heard that Regent Park’s revitalization plan was the best thing that could have happened to Toronto. And that Scarborough needed the same chance.”
These lines exhibit an outside perspective that is conflicting and, ultimately, inaccurate. However, it still remains to be the most prevalent perspective while also reproducing speculations based on regurgitations. These speculations simplify and limit Darnell’s background and, thus, do the same for the community he comes from.
But, despite the single story repeated regarding this collective, the rest of the short story fights the shallow perspectives about them. It does so by adding multiplicity to its characters.
Rather than abiding by the narrative surrounding them, Mutonji explores these characters and their community with love and complexity. She writes about the intricacies of several bonds and relationships that exist between community members. She describes certain characters in a way that greatly contrasts their stereotypical archetype. She shows that there are still differences within a community, and they should not be classified as a homogeneous collective.
Most importantly, Mutonji writes that, ultimately, what brings these people together is not solely the violence their community faces but the authenticity within the love and care they all have for one another, something unheard of in their surrounding single story.
“What Are You Doing Here, Sister?” by Lamya H
Lamya H is a queer Muslim writer from New York City who uses their lived experiences and various parts of their livelihood to craft narratives that oppose dominant ones regarding women, the Muslim community, the queer community or a combination of all three.
In 2017, they published a personal essay in the Los Angeles Review of Books titled “What Are You Doing Here, Sister?” The essay explores Lamya’s journey to living in the U.S. and the hardships, as well as the new experiences, it brought to them. Themes of home, safety, love and selfhood prevail as the narrator finds out more about their identity and what they want from life.
There is a moment in the story where the narrator is at a queer bar speaking on how long it has taken her to find a group of queer Muslims she can call family, stating the following:
“It has taken me years dragging myself to lesbian bars and pride and dance parties and all that this city has to offer, these places where my Muslimness, my brownness feel acutely out of place. These places where, once, a white lesbian once petted my hijab like I was an exotic creature, where this other time, a Moroccan bouncer looked me up and down and said, “What are you doing here, sister?”
The particular question asked by the bouncer demonstrates how his single story of how a hijabi Muslim woman is and should be is challenged. The question is not asked out of hostility or confrontation but instead out of confusion and genuine inquiry because his single story of a Muslim woman does not entail them being at a queer bar.
There are many more instances within this essay that go against the notion of the single story surrounding aspects of their identity. In a beautiful way, their intersectionality works together to combat these narratives and present a new and more complex one altogether.
I’m Afraid of Men by Vivek Shraya
Vivek Shraya—a Canadian artist in music, theatre, film, visual arts and literature—is a bestselling trans author who writes about her lived experiences as a transgender woman of colour in I’m Afraid of Men. She touches on how masculinity was imposed on her throughout her life and the hardships she faced regarding her identity at the hands of others and herself.
The book presents itself as an epistolary; written as a journal or a series of letters. It’s split up into three sections: untitled, You, and Me.
The first section sets the scene of her trying to adhere to societal standards of what it means to “properly” be a man or a woman, but instead, society tells her she isn’t doing it right. It serves as context, following up to the next sections, where she delves into her lived experiences.
Section two, titled “You,” speaks to the people in Shraya’s life who have shaped her in some way. In the majority of these chapters, she is talking to a man in her life, whether it be someone at the bus stop spitting on her or a boyfriend that’s cheated on her. The use of the word “you” in reference to the man forces the reader to be part of the narrative, probing the question of whether or not we are implicit in this behaviour, whether that be consciously or subconsciously.
The final section, titled “Me,” is a reflective ending to the narrative. Fighting against the single story of sole hardships and violence that trans women face, Shraya showcases strength and resilience. She shows progression within her interpersonal relationships and, ultimately, acceptance of herself and who she is.
Shraya exudes power by taking control of her own narrative, refusing to let anyone else define her story, thus going against what the single story offers.
At its very core, the single story provides the world with harmful stereotypes that leave people and communities feeling misunderstood, isolated and unfairly categorized as per the broader narrative. However, these three authors have taken strides to ensure they take part in the effort to combat it with stories and experiences full of complex layers and love.