Choices Of Genre: Decolonizing Western Cultural Stereotypes
The genre, mode, and style of writing chosen by an author are crucial elements in conveying their message, regardless of the theme being explored. In the context of decolonization and challenging Western cultural stereotypes, genre plays a pivotal role in shaping how the message is received and by whom. It can target specific audiences or reach broader ones, effectively denormalizing stereotypes and addressing issues of race, culture, exile, gender, and identity. Approaches to writing about colonial histories vary—whether direct or indirect—but the opportunity to critique imperialism and colonial ideologies is always present. Even in Lewis Carroll’s claim that Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was meant as "nonsense," the imaginative and fantastical narrative reflects the subconscious and very real dynamics of Victorian society, planting questions that would otherwise not be brought to light.
Firstly, I will examine texts by Perrault, Carter, Carroll, Swift, and Perec, all of whom use fantastical or utopian worlds to challenge Western societal stereotypes about cultures and peoples, some subtly and others more directly. Perrault, for instance, conveys profound messages through stories that we now recognize as classic fairy tales. These tales have roots as old as storytelling itself, passed down orally long before they were written—Perrault was perhaps just the first to set them down on paper. Fairy tales—filled with magic, mythical creatures, and impossible quests—served as both entertainment and a way to make sense of the world. They were never just for children; they carried cultural wisdom and moral lessons, often dark and unsettling, that reflected the realities of the times they came from. Little Red Riding Hood and Bluebeard, for example, critique societal flaws. While it might be tempting to see them as primarily male critiques, they also portray women in controversial ways. Their approach to gender often feels ambivalent, rendering their commentary more universal, though later adaptations have interpreted them differently.
Although these tales unfold in absurd fictional lands populated by men with blue beards and wolves disguised as grandmothers, their themes are no less serious than those addressed in realist novels. Beneath their fantastical surface lies sharp social commentary, demonstrating the enduring power of these narratives to reflect and challenge cultural norms. Perrault’s fairy tales, often paired with explicit morals, tackle complex themes such as curiosity, deceit, and societal expectations around gender roles. Little Red Riding Hood, for example, serves as a cautionary tale about naivety and the dangers of straying from prescribed norms, warning of the risks tied to vulnerability and disobedience. In Perrault’s original version, the story ends grimly with both Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother being eaten by the wolf—a crude and unsettling conclusion that drew criticism for its harshness.
This rather crude ending led to numerous rewritings, including one of the most famous by the Grimm brothers. Their version introduces a heroic woodsman who saves both Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother, offering a more hopeful resolution. However, while this ending softens the narrative, it also reinforces a problematic “damsel in distress” trope, perpetuating the idea that women’s survival depends on male intervention. Both versions reflect their respective cultural contexts: Perrault’s tale underscores the dangers of innocence and the inevitability of consequences, while the Grimms’ rewrite aligns with 19th-century ideals of heroism and redemption. Similarly, Bluebeard delves into the dangers of curiosity, and while modern interpretations acknowledge the imbalance of power in relationships within the story, it was written with a much more outdated perspective. The fairy tale genre allowed these lessons to be conveyed both directly and indirectly, blending fantastical storytelling with moral instruction. This combination ensured their longevity, as their core messages continued to resonate centuries later. However, these tales suffer from reductiveness and quite some limitations for modern readers. Perrault’s moral framework often reinforces restrictive gender roles, portraying women as either helpless victims or culpable for their own downfall. This lack of nuance diminishes opportunities for showcasing female agency and resistance.
Angela Carter’s rewriting of Bluebeard in The Bloody Chamber is a prime example of how one can challenge patriarchal narratives, using the fairy tale genre as a tool to decolonize and destigmatize Western stereotypes about gender and power. Carter critiques the foundations of Perrault’s tales, shifting the focus from passive female victims to active, autonomous protagonists. Through irony and subversion, she dismantles the structures of power and control that define the original story. In The Bloody Chamber, survival depends not on a male rescuer but on the protagonist’s resourcefulness, self-reliance, and solidarity with other women. Moments like her declaration, “Are you sure you love him? ‘I’m sure I want to marry him,’ I said” (Carter, 2), highlight the societal pressures and commodification of women within patriarchal systems. Carter rejects the simplistic moralism of Perrault’s version, offering instead a narrative that emphasizes resilience and empowerment. Carter’s use of the fantastical expands the boundaries of the traditional fairy tale, allowing for progressive reinterpretations that critique societal norms and envision alternative possibilities. By infusing her narratives with eroticism (for which it is criticized) and grotesque imagery, she disrupts the sanitized conventions of the genre, forcing readers to grapple with the complexities of desire, power, and agency. The fairy tale genre provides a uniquely potent platform for critiquing and dismantling Western stereotypes. Its reliance on metaphor, allegory, and moral ambiguity enables writers to explore themes of power, identity, and societal structures in ways that are both accessible and subversive.
Lewis Carroll and Jonathan Swift transport readers to fantastical realms, using the fantasy genre as a subtle yet potent tool to critique colonial and imperial ideologies without directly confronting them. Writing in the 18th and 19th centuries, respectively, both authors use irony and satire to expose and challenge the societal norms of their time. Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland critiques the rigid structures, moralistic values, and narrow worldviews of Victorian society, embedding sharp commentary within its seemingly nonsensical and whimsical narrative. In Gulliver’s Travels, Swift offers a scathing critique of British society—whether in Lilliput, Brobdingnag, or the land of the Houyhnhnms, these societies and their power dynamics reflect key aspects of British ideology. By setting their critiques in fantastical worlds, Carroll and Swift avoid direct confrontation with their contemporaries, evading censorship that would have suppressed more overt critiques. While Gulliver’s Travels was censored in its time, it later gained broader acceptance. Fantasy, in this sense, becomes a vehicle for social commentary, allowing readers to reflect on the ideologies that shape their world. The genre’s inherent obscurity provided these authors with a layer of plausible deniability, enabling them to challenge imperialism and societal norms in a way that more direct forms of writing could not.
An intriguing choice of genre is Perec’s W, or The Memory of Childhood, which stands apart for its innovative blend of autobiographical and fictional writing. Perec’s approach encapsulates his alienation from his own childhood, creating a fragmented narrative that mirrors the fractured memories of his past. The book begins with a fictional story he wrote as a child, depicting an Olympian society that initially seems utopian, governed by order and ideals of athletic excellence. However, as the narrative progresses, the façade of harmony crumbles to reveal a dystopian reality defined by violence, cruelty, and oppressive structures. This shift from utopia to dystopia reflects Perec’s own disillusionment and displacement, shaped by the trauma of World War II and the loss of his parents to the Holocaust.
Perec’s choice of genre becomes a vehicle for both escapism and confrontation, blending fiction and autobiography to navigate the complexities of his past. While the fictional elements provide a refuge from the harsh realities of his life, his lived experiences inevitably surface, exposing the inescapable imprint of history and trauma. His Jewish heritage, which he viewed as a minor part of his childhood, emerges indirectly through the oppressive systems and dystopian realities he constructs in W. By blending utopia and dystopia, and autobiography, Perec not only challenges traditional notions of memory, history, and identity but also creates a genre uniquely his own. This layered approach allows him to capture the fragmented and often elusive nature of his childhood and identity in a way that would not be possible through conventional storytelling.
David Malouf’s Remembering Babylon and Leïla Slimani’s In the Country of Others both use historical fiction in compelling ways, placing the reader within a specific historical context that allows for a deeper understanding of the challenges faced by oppressed peoples. In Remembering Babylon, Malouf crafts a nuanced narrative that goes beyond portraying either Aboriginal Australia or colonial settlers in isolation. Through the characters of Gemmy, a white boy raised by Indigenous Australians, and the settlers such as Janet McIvor and the McIvor family, he offers a complex portrait of both groups, highlighting the struggles and tensions of the time for each. By focusing on the intimate, often painful lives of individuals like Gemmy, who faces rejection and alienation from both Indigenous communities and settlers, Malouf shifts the focus from sweeping historical narratives to the personal experiences of cultural displacement. This approach encourages readers to engage with the lived realities of those impacted by colonialism, offering a more textured and human perspective on the effects of imperialism.
Similarly, in Leïla Slimani’s In the Country of Others, the characters of Mathilde and her husband, Amine, navigate the complexities of both French-ruled and postcolonial Morocco. While Morocco officially gained sovereignty, French influence remained deeply entrenched through military presence, economic power, and cultural dominance, shaping the identities of Mathilde, a French woman, and Amine, who finds himself caught between cultures. Slimani uses this backdrop to explore the emotional and social consequences of colonialism, highlighting how both Mathilde and Amine navigate a world where the remnants of French rule continue to shape their personal identities and relationships. This struggle extends to their daughter, Aïcha, who embodies the tensions between the two cultures. Through the characters’ struggles, Slimani illuminates the deep, lingering effects of colonization, making the historical and emotional impacts of this fraught history palpably felt. The historical fiction genre allows Slimani to offer a nuanced, deeply visual portrayal of Morocco’s struggle for independence, not only from French rule but also from patriarchy and the rigid labels of identity imposed by both colonialism and society.
Furthermore, Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Confessions (18th century) stands as the first example and blueprint in the autobiographical genre, centering the self as both a subject of exploration and a reflection of society. His work is revolutionary in its vulnerability, exposing his flaws and contradictions while challenging the norms of his time. However, Rousseau’s focus remains intensely personal, often missing the larger structural forces shaping his experiences. Its critiques usually stem from the exhibitionist tone of the text and Rousseau himself. By diving deeply into individual introspection, he examines his past as a deeper study of moral and psychological development but stops short of fully connecting the personal with the broader societal or political landscape.
Edward Saïd’s Out of Place reimagines the autobiographical form by intertwining the personal with the political, pushing the genre into new territory and showcasing that it can stand for so much more than just personal recollections. Saïd’s narrative captures the fragmented identity and displacement that arise from his experience of colonialism, revealing the tension of belonging to multiple worlds while feeling at home in none. Unlike Rousseau, Saïd explicitly acknowledges the historical and geopolitical forces shaping his life. His autobiography critiques imperialism and its consequences, demonstrating how personal experiences of exile and alienation are inseparable from larger political contexts. Saïd’s approach transforms the genre into a platform for resistance and political reflection, expanding its potential beyond the introspective.
In Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes, Barthes uses the genre of autobiography to decolonize Western cultural stereotypes by breaking away from the traditional, authoritative structure of the autobiographical narrative. Rather than offering a linear, cohesive life story, he presents a fragmented and self-reflexive text that challenges the expectation of autobiography as a unified, stable account of the self. This approach deconstructs the Western idea of the individual as a fixed, coherent subject and instead portrays identity as fluid and shaped by external forces, which aligns with Barthes’ belief that the self is “irretrievable” and any attempt to define it is futile. By playing with language and structure, using alphabetical order as the only organizing principle, Barthes undermines the conventional authority granted to the author, suggesting that identity and authorship are not fixed concepts but rather are subject to interpretation and change. This mirrors his larger critique of Western cultural norms that have historically shaped and controlled identity, particularly through colonial and imperial discourses.
Annie Ernaux’s A Man’s Place and Shame push the boundaries of autobiography by adopting a minimalist, almost detached narrative style—a hallmark of her "knife-cutting" prose. In both works, Ernaux explores the intersection of class, memory, and identity, but her approach to these themes is strikingly different from traditional autobiographical writing. In A Man’s Place, Ernaux shifts the focus from herself to her father, using his life and death as a lens through which to examine how class influences personal history. By doing so, she moves away from the conventional autobiographical gaze, exposing the larger societal structures that shape individual experiences. In contrast, Shame focuses on a singular, traumatic event: “My father tried to kill my mother.” This moment, brutal and personal, serves as a gateway into an exploration of Ernaux’s own identity, the dynamics of her family, and the oppressive societal expectations that govern both.
Ernaux’s restraint is both jarring and powerful. She avoids emotional excess, choosing instead a spare, direct style that emphasizes the often invisible forces of class and trauma shaping intimate experiences. This choice of genre and narrative style does more than just tell a personal story—it challenges and deconstructs Western cultural stereotypes about autobiography, where emotions are often foregrounded and individual identity is central. Ernaux's work decolonizes these norms by using autobiography not to glorify the self but to reveal the broader social and political forces at play. Together, these works mark an evolution in the genre of autobiography, allowing Ernaux’s style and her history to powerfully address issues of identity, social hierarchies, and the politics of personal experience. Through her minimalist approach, she transforms the autobiographical form into a tool for interrogating and unsettling Western cultural assumptions about selfhood, class, and gender.
More direct texts like Elleke Boehmer’s Imperialism and Textuality and Bill Ashcroft, Gareth Griffiths, and Helen Tiffin’s Postcolonial Studies: The Key Concepts employ distinct yet complementary genres to interrogate colonial power structures and their lingering effects. Boehmer’s work takes the form of a critical essay, using dense literary analysis and theoretical engagement to explore how colonialism is embedded in literary forms and textual practices. By focusing on the interplay between imperial power and narrative, Boehmer highlights how colonial discourse shapes perceptions of identity, culture, and history. Her choice of genre allows her to critique and deconstruct the literary devices and ideologies that sustain colonial hierarchies, pushing readers to question the neutrality of the texts and the ways in which they have historically reinforced imperial dominance.
In contrast, Postcolonial Studies: The Key Concepts adopts the format of a reference guide or academic glossary, presenting a comprehensive, accessible lexicon of terms central to the study of postcolonial theory. The genre’s focus on clarity and organization enables the authors to demystify complex theoretical concepts and make them widely available to both scholars and students. This approach democratizes access to postcolonial studies, encouraging critical engagement with terms like "hybridity," "mimicry," and "subaltern," which are essential to understanding the mechanics of colonial and postcolonial power. By breaking down theoretical barriers, the text serves as a tool for decolonizing knowledge itself, offering a foundation for readers to challenge and rethink the narratives imposed by Western academia. Together, these works use their respective genres to illuminate and dismantle colonial structures, making space for more inclusive and critical conversations about empire and its aftermath.
In conclusion, the choice of genre, mode, and style is integral to how authors critique colonialism, imperialism, and societal norms and how the readers receive them. Whether through historical fiction, autobiography, or critical essays, these forms provide unique avenues for interrogating entrenched power structures and reimagining identity and agency. These genres offer more than just storytelling—they challenge readers to reconsider entrenched stereotypes through digestible, nuanced, entertaining, and complicated narratives–inviting reflection on how identity and history are shaped by colonial power structures. Through these diverse forms, writers create spaces in which harmful and limiting stereotypes are challenged.
Ashcroft, Bill, et al. (2007). Postcolonial Studies: The Key Concepts (2nd ed.). Routledge.
Barthes, Roland. (1975). Roland Barthes by Roland Barthes.
Boehmer, Elleke. (2005). Colonial and Postcolonial Literature: Imperialism and Textuality. Oxford University Press.
Carroll, Lewis. (1893). Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
Carter, Angela. (1979). The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories.
Ernaux, Annie. (1983). A Man’s Place.
Ernaux, Annie. (1998). Shame.
Malouf, David. (1993). Remembering Babylon.
Perrault, Charles. (1697). Little Red Riding Hood & Bluebeard.
Perec, Georges. (1975). W, or the Memory of Childhood.
Rousseau, Jean Jacques. (1783). The Confessions.
Saïd, Edward. (1999). Out of Place: A Memoir.
Slimani, Leïla. (2020). In the Country of Others.
Swift, Jonathan. (1726). Gulliver’s Travels.
