Not Just Black And White

Image via Pixabay

A lot of people have the notion that there exists only good or bad people in the world. Black and white. Someone is either purely good or purely bad. No grey areas in between. It's like in fairytales, where there's the hero and the villain. The hero is perceived to be good and virtuous. And the villain or the "bad guy" is the polar opposite of this.

Rarely do we see "good" characters whose flaws are highlighted. Or "bad" characters who also have good qualities. This black and white representation is harmful for many reasons. It can teach us that there are only two types of individuals in the world. It can lead to false ideas about what human beings really are.

When protagonists and antagonists are represented as purely good or bad, it can lead people to think that someone who is a good person can never do wrong. In life, people make mistakes. That is at the core of humanity.

No person on this earth is solely good or bad. Everyone, no matter what they are perceived to be, is human. People with good hearts can also do bad things. And someone who is villainous is capable of doing something altruistic.

Nobody is too good to be bad and nobody is too bad to be good. For instance, Snow White is an innocent and pure character, but that doesn't mean she isn't capable of doing something wrong. And in turn, the Evil Queen is cruel, her motivations are unsavoury. But surely she can also be softhearted.

So, in the world, we have all kinds of people. And no one should be placed in a neat little box. Human beings are complex. They're not simply black or white. They are grey, beige, lilac and every colour and shade in between.

Comments

a life so small – A poem inspired by A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

How much can one achieve in a little life? a life so small How do you go about the day always getting in your own way? Clinging to skyscrapers tall Your friends are there yet you don't know why they care Jumping from fire escapes you're so used to the fall The bruises, broken bones, bleeding you think they don't see when you've held the shining thing to your torn-up skin a certain kind of dependency You let yourself shiver in spite of the arms that long to cradle you Cry yourself a river until your hollow spaces leave no traces Forlorn jungle eyes gaze at portraits that, despite their beauty, bring you shame soothes and destroys just like your name because you were baptised in the kind of water that doesn't cleanse but drowns What colours do you use to paint a lost cause who's also a patron saint?...

Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been? by Joyce Carol Oates — The Aftertaste of Short Stories

There are some stories you finish… and then there are stories that stay. This one didn’t just stay—it lingered, like a shadow in the corner of the room that you keep checking, just in case it moved. Arnold Friend. I still can’t get him out of my head. At first, he almost feels ridiculous. The way he talks, the way he looks—it’s slightly off, slightly strange. But then something shifts. The more he speaks, the more the air changes. It’s like watching something reveal itself slowly, and realizing too late that it was never harmless to begin with. There’s this quiet dread that builds. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… inevitable. Connie feels so real. That in-between space—wanting to be seen, wanting attention, playing at being older than she is. And then suddenly she’s faced with something she doesn’t understand, can’t control, and can’t escape from. That’s what made it so terrifying for me. Not anything supernatural. Not anything graphic. Just a girl, a house, a man outside—and ...

The Doll–Master by Joyce Carol Oates — The Aftertaste of Short Stories

I'm scarred for life... but fascinated. I have a fear of dolls(pediophobia), which made the plot of this tale even more unsettling. It’s the way he thinks he’s saving them. That’s what’s rotting in my mind. He looks at a vibrant, messy, living girl and sees something 'broken' that only he can 'fix' by making her sit still forever. My skin feels tight just thinking about it. Because I have this fear, every mention of a glass eye or a stiff limb feels like a needle prick. He isn't just a collector; he’s a taxidermist of the spirit. He wants the world to be a shelf where nothing ever moves, nothing ever changes, and nothing ever leaves him. The stillness isn't peace. It's a scream that’s been painted over with a smile.

Row From The Heart

Search This Blog