by Nomun-Erdene Surkhiisaikhan

Read the Faculty Introduction.

Abstract

Since its formation as a Black cultural movement in the late 1980s, hip-hop has quickly emerged as one of the most prominent artistic spheres that has influenced popular culture across the world. However, as hip-hop has gained mainstream success, it has simultaneously affirmed hypermasculine and homophobic messages that undermine its emancipatory potential. This paper argues that a radical rethinking of hip-hop is necessary to challenge and subvert these dominant ideologies, emphasizing the importance of a ‘quare’ lens that acknowledges and uplifts the experiences and perspectives of queer Black artists in hip-hop. Later sections will introduce the works of Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X who are being considered trailblazers in the rap industry for the ways they challenge traditional notions of masculinity and heteronormativity in the hip-hop sphere.

Keywords: hip-hop, hypermasculinity, gender studies, quare theory, Frank Ocean, Lil Nas X

In the summer of 2021, controversy surrounding hip-hop artist DaBaby took social media by storm. The rapper’s homophobic rhetoric at Miami’s Rolling Loud music festival quickly enraged spectators and commenters when he said, “If you didn’t show up today with HIV/AIDS, or any of them deadly sexually transmitted diseases that’ll make you die in two or three weeks, then put your cell phone light up. … Fellas, if you ain’t sucking dick in the parking lot, put your cell phone light up” (Johnson). His remarks prompted the industry to respond by canceling his upcoming gigs and making public statements against him. At the same time, a significant number of influential hip-hop artists like Tory Lanez and T.I. came forward to DaBaby’s defense by asserting that he is simply “living his truth” (Johnson).

With its innate defiance of social stigmas and unapologetic critiques of institutionalized oppression, hip-hop¹ seems like an ideal space for marginalized queer expression to thrive. Yet, those who have already claimed success in the genre seem reluctant to welcome queer artists. This unwillingness of many in many in the rap community to accept new artists — especially those who don’t conform to traditional norms of hip-hop — is an established pattern. Female rappers as old-school as Queen Latifah and as new as Cardi B have fought tooth and nail to be respected and treated as real and noteworthy artists in a field saturated with patriarchal worldviews (Brown).

Scholarly and journalistic literature surrounding hip-hop has repeatedly revealed the industry’s hypermasculine and misogynist beliefs. Such norms not only affect how the audience perceives patriarchal power dimensions but extend to queerphobic attitudes that marginalize and discredit the LGBTQ+ community. There seems to be a light at the end of the tunnel; with the growing awareness of sexual and gender fluidity in recent years, queer artists such as Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X are paving a new way forward in hip-hop — as a distinct musical genre as well as the culture that surrounds it — by defying patriarchal gender norms and inspiring others to be more comfortable with self-expression. DaBaby’s insensitive comments serve as a stark contrast to what Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X are striving for within the industry, highlighting hip-hop’s struggle to reconcile the imperatives of authentic Black masculinity with what it means to be queer. As a new generation of queer rappers increasingly claims success and visibility, it demands us to critically engage in conversations regarding persistent hypermasculinity and queerphobia that diminishes the spirit of Black creativity.

Contextualizing Hip-Hop through the ‘Quare’ Theory Lens

Hip-hop’s emergence can be dated back to the surge of socially conscious music in the late 1980s that reflected the ideologies of Black radicalism from the late 1960s and 70s (Rashid 344). As it evolved into “an intergenerational movement around crafting solutions which were artistic, organizational, and institutional” (Rashid 344), it is important to acknowledge hip-hop for what it is — an African-American cultural movement — rather than a conventional music genre without social or political connotations. In many ways, hip-hop arose as a platform for social criticism, explicitly confronting white hegemony and shedding light on the lived experiences of marginalized communities.

In particular, hip-hop lyrics strongly resonate with and influence African-American audiences as many young Black men construct and shape their own identities around hip-hop culture (Jamison 58). As Alabama A&M University professor Melvin L. Williams put it, there is an “inherent connection between Rap lyrics, the performers and its listeners” (4) founded on the common understanding that hip-hop is a form of cultural resistance. Self-determination is a critical facet of hip-hop; Black Americans finally found an outlet to define, name, and speak for themselves, instead of being defined, named, and spoken for by others (Rashid 345). Thus, artists of this music genre pursue projects that more or less reflect their positionality, touching on their intersectional experiences.

It then follows that analyzing queer expression through the ‘quare’ lens becomes imperative in realizing the connection between social communities and the relevant music genres that arise from their culture. Coined by African-American studies scholar E. Patrick Johnson, this subset of queer theory focuses on the intersectionality of LGBTQ+ people of color and addresses the problem of conventional queer theory that portrays all queer people as one monolithic group. While acknowledging its contribution in critically interrogating notions of heteronormativity, Johnson notes that much of queer theory is “unable to accommodate the issues faced by lesbian, bisexual, gay, and transgendered people who come from ‘raced’ communities” (3). He further suggests that quare theory must be extended beyond academic discourse to improve the political realities of communities of color through a sustained critique of oppressive systems, alluding to its “bi-directional nature” (19): between theory and practice, between empowerment and self-reflection.

By allowing for the deliberation of other identity factors such as class, gender, and racial differences among queer individuals, quare theory furthers the discourse on how queerness in hip-hop challenges the political, economic, and historical power structures that reinforce Black heteronormative hypermasculinity. Feminist scholar bell hooks in her book Yearning writes about the possibility of marginality as a space for the production of radical and transformative discourse, “a space of resistance” (149) where Black people can freely confront and critique the issues of racial domination. This paper seeks to construct hip-hop as such a space and to invoke Johnson’s proposal to apply quare theory to address oppression within the margin. Although hip-hop has emerged as a prominent field for portraying black experiences, its loyalty to patriarchal narratives has led to the perpetuation of hypermasculine depictions of Black men. As hooks aptly puts it, “Black liberation struggle must be re-visioned so that it is no longer equated with maleness” (64).

In hip-hop, popular artists repeatedly evoke sexist and homophobic sentiments in their music to maintain their masculine narratives, resulting in the discrimination and further marginalization of queer people in society. As Temple University professor Marc Lamont Hill affirms, predominantly heterosexual attitudes are prevalent in all music genres, but “rap music operate[s] as one of the most prominent and accessible sites for transmitting antigay beliefs and values” (32). Even at the height of the political rap era in the 1980s and 90s, progressive hip-hop artists such as Public Enemy, X-Clan, Paris, and Sista Soulja were strongly influenced by “radical Afrocentric, Black Islamic, and crude Black Nationalist ideologies” (Hill 33) that were explicitly hostile to queer identities.

Employing quare theory in understanding hip-hop allows for a more in-depth reading of contemporary queer expressions that have changed the trajectory of traditional hip-hop. As previously mentioned, hip-hop is not simply a stylistic element in music but has expanded into a culture with its distinct characteristics where individuals are able to familiarize or potentially identify themselves with artists and songs. Precisely because hip-hop is such an influential music genre, it is important to understand the political and social effects of how it portrays or creates space for queer identities.

The Trajectory of Hypermasculinity and Homophobia in Hip-Hop

While acknowledging the emancipatory power of hip-hop in how it has created means for the Black community to possess agency over their narratives and confront racial injustices, it is indisputable that mainstream hip-hop has reinforced patriarchal norms of masculinity. What is most troubling is that these ideals stem from Euro-American conceptions — that is, to be a man is to have power — that wouldn’t have crystallized among Black societies if it weren’t for slavery and colonization. As feminist scholar bell hooks wrote in her book We Real Cool, “The gender politics of slavery and white-supremacist domination of free black men was the school where black men from different African tribes, with different languages and value systems, learned in the ‘new world,’ patriarchal masculinity” (2). Thus, in order to be considered “real men,” Black men conformed to the gender norms conceived by Western worldviews while trying to resist the politics of domination. The problem with hip-hop is not that it diverges sharply from conventional normative standards, but that it aligns too closely with patriarchal values — namely, the norming or exclusion of femininity, as well as the objectification, devaluation, and commodification of women. Moreover, as LGBTQ+ individuals, particularly gay men, are stereotypically associated with femininity, discriminations against such communities are intrinsically related to gender norms that favor men over women. Through employing homophobic and misogynistic attitudes and lyrics, many hip-hop artists assert their social superiority, a phenomenon hooks notes as “black men declar[ing] that they were connected to white men, brothers under the skin, bound by masculinity, by a shared allegiance to patriarchy” (14).

A content analysis study done by scholars Weitzer and Kubrin at George Washington University found that in a sample of 403 rap songs from 1992 through 2000, 67% of the lyrics pertained to the sexual objectification of women, 49% included some sort of name-calling and shaming such as calling women “bitches” and “hoes,” and 18% explicitly talked about and glorified violence against women (12). Weitzer and Kubrin reference multiple ethnographic studies on how men in racially and economically disadvantaged communities have a tendency to take pride in their dominance over women in order to affirm their masculinity (20). Music genres like hip-hop seem to reflect such beliefs, while simultaneously circulating misogynistic beliefs to their young audiences.

Specifically, this has manifested in the surge of “thug” and “gangsta” rappers in the 1990s accentuating their masculinity through aggression, toughness, and sexual promiscuity. Artists such as Snoop Dogg and hip-hop group N.W.A. are notoriously known to employ “tough” and provocative language that embody masculine norms. In one of their most well-known songs “Gangsta Gangsta,” former N.W.A. member Ice Cube raps “To a kid lookin’ up to me / Life ain’t nothin’ but bitches and money” (1:06-1:10) followed up with the line “See, I don’t give a fuck” (1:15).

In fact, this “I don’t give a damn” attitude not only signals Black men’s aloof and defiant posture towards a society that oppresses and antagonizes them but is used to bolster their masculinity. University of North Carolina professor C.P. Gause commented on hip-hop artists’ need to preserve a “cool” and unbothered exterior:

Compensating for feelings of insecurity in a Eurocentric world has led the African American male, particularly the youth, to redefine what it means to be a man in the present world. For most, this includes risk-taking, machismo, aggressive social skills, and sexual promiscuity. To be bad is to be cool and to be cool is a sign of power, strength, and protection. (49)

In addition, proclamations of masculinity also came in forms of homophobia, rappers continuously using phrases such as “no homo” or “gay” and “f*g” as an insult towards other straight men, disparaging queer identities while further sustaining heteronormative patriarchal gender norms. Hill writes that speculation over an artist’s sexuality is a “professional death sentence” (31) in the industry, homosexuality being considered “soft, weak, and effeminate” (48) — a direct, and borderline threatening, contrast to the cool, tough, and masculine dispositions of hip-hop. DMX’s infamous feud with rival rapper Ja Rule was littered with attempts to emasculate one another through homophobic language; DMX’s wildly popular track “Where the Hood At?” echoes such sentiments in his lyrics as “Last I heard, y’all n****z was having sex, with the same-sex / I show no love, to homo thugs” (Hill 42). Ja Rule’s career never recovered from this incident.

Such practices weren’t just a jab at fellow rappers’ masculinity but stand as a reflection of the culture’s rejection of and disdain towards queerness. Queer male hip-hop artists are constantly faced with discrimination that tries to alienate them from the industry, regardless of whether they display elements of patriarchal masculinity.

In the absence of a space to comfortably express their sexualities, queer rappers in the 1990s birthed the era of “homothug” hip-hop, one where the artists could possess traditionally masculine features while identifying as gay or bisexual. The hip-hop crew Deep Dickollective frequently talked about their queerness while maintaining qualities of “a real man”, with verses such as “Honey, I am more man than you’ll ever be / and more women than you’ll ever get” (0:27-0:32) in their song “Butchqueen”. Homothug hip-hop artists and groups like Deep Dickollective “received scant attention from major radio stations and news outlets” (Hill 33), revealing mainstream hip-hop’s unwillingness to support or welcome queerness in the industry. Accompanying this exclusion was the perception of the homothug as a “gay man in denial” (Hill 48), further showcasing the belief that hip-hop and queerness are two irreconcilable concepts.

While homophobic sentiments still linger throughout the industry today (as seen with the DaBaby’s crass comments at the Rolling Loud festival), hip-hop fans and artists in other music spheres have become much more reluctant to put up with ignorance and discrimination against the LGBTQ+ community. In 2017, hip-hop group Migos’ member Offset came under fire for rapping “I don’t vibe with queers” in a feature, listeners questioning his explanation that he used “queer” as its dictionary definition of “strange” or “odd” (Rhodes). Especially as another Migos member Quavo has been previously called out for homophobia towards queer hip-hop artists (Rhodes), it most likely comes off as a feeble attempt to dodge criticism. In retrospect, with an industry that quite literally hinges on audience approval for profit, artists getting called out for their queerphobia seem to be a step in the right direction.

Hypermasculine norms, misogyny, and homophobia all go hand-in-hand in shaping Black masculinity, and these beliefs are further reinforced through hip-hop music. With the mainstream popularity of gangsta rap in the 1990s, hip-hop artists began to utilize patriarchal masculinity that emphasizes the need to be tough, rebellious, and heterosexual to build an image that romanticizes violence, thinks being feminine is the worst thing a man could be, and actively discriminates against women and queer people.

A Changing Landscape: Lyrical Analysis of the Works of Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X

In the confines of a music genre historically associated with the subjugation of women and normalized homophobia, queer men stand as “challengers” to the standards of hypermasculinity and “toughness” in the industry. Noteworthy for defying gender norms and heteronormativity, Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X finding mainstream success show how it is possible for hip-hop to be inclusive, and in fact, more “real” and cooler than ever.

Shortly before the release of his Grammy-winning debut album channel ORANGE in 2012, hip-hop/R&B artist Frank Ocean published a post on the social media network Tumblr where he recalled his romantic experience with a man. Since then, his musical projects have often alluded to his queerness, thus, analysis of his work is important in how he defies heteronormative concepts of masculinity and highlights the fluidity of sexuality.

Though songs like “Thinkin’ ‘Bout You” and “Forrest Gump” are most often recognized as a nod towards his queer sexuality, one of Ocean’s most eloquent and honest narrations comes with his first album’s 14th track “Bad Religion”, where he is talking to a taxi driver about his personal life almost in a religious confession manner. Ocean establishes himself as a vulnerable and introspective narrator, seeking solace and comfort from someone who is, essentially, a stranger. In the second verse of the song, he declares “I can’t tell you the truth about my disguise, I can’t trust no one” (1:36). The level of isolation and loneliness that drives him to confide to a stranger with his deepest secret offers a glimpse into the struggles faced by many queer individuals to find acceptance in a world that often rejects them.

He brings up the theme of religious condemnation of homosexuality by singing “I can never make him love me” (1:10). Likely inspired by the man in his Tumblr letter who didn’t reciprocate Ocean’s romantic feelings, “Him” could also be interpreted as a reference to God. Since many world religions preach anti-LGBTQ theology and consider homosexuality a sin (Massie), the song hints at Ocean’s struggle to reconcile his religion with his sexual identity, fearing that God may not love him because he is queer. Double/triple entendre is a key trait of Ocean’s lyricism and is repeatedly utilized in the song to imbue the phrase “bad religion” with multiple connotations and dimensions. The chorus features the line “If it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion” (0:45), articulating the struggle between his sexuality being bad in the eyes of religious doctrines, simultaneously referring to the emotional pain and personal turmoil caused by his unrequited love. The phrase “brings me to my knees” can be interpreted as a reference to the ritual of prayer, the act of performing oral sex, or a metaphor for the intense emotional distress that can result from loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate those feelings. By assigning multiple meanings to this phrase, Ocean creates a sense of ambiguity and intricacy in his lyrics that underscore the vulnerability and emotional complexity of his experiences.

The most explicit exclamation of his sexuality comes from his 2017 single “Chanel,” with Ocean using the double C emblem of the designer brand Chanel to allude to his sexuality. The song begins with the ironic proclamation “My guy pretty like a girl, and he got fight stories to tell” (0:17-0:21) where the artist intentionally subverts gender norms by pointing out the feminine physical characteristics of his love interest. At the same time, Ocean is highlighting his love interests’ characterizations of patriarchal masculinity (violence, aggression, and toughness) by saying he engages in fights. This line serves as an elucidation of his own sexuality, as he acknowledges his attraction to someone who embodies both traditionally masculine and feminine traits.

He continues to sing  “I see (C) both sides like Chanel,” (0:22) referring to his sexual attraction to both men and women through the two C’s of the Chanel logo. In the outro, Ocean is heard repeating “I mean my baby bi” (2:40). Although he is openly referring to his queer relationship, it can also be interpreted as a way of avoiding categorization of his own sexuality by describing his partner’s. As previously noted, deliberate ambiguity is a hallmark of Ocean’s musical style (and personal identity) that allows him to explore complex themes and ideas without being limited by traditional labels or expectations. Even throughout the rest of his discography, Frank Ocean never classifies himself into one sexual orientation or another but makes subtle connotations that imply his attraction towards men. Journalist Jason Lamphier skillfully articulates the significance of Ocean’s works in a Rolling Stone article: “[Ocean’s album] Blonde is queer in the word’s truest sense: nonconforming, elusive, boundless. It celebrates the intangible, the strange. It doesn’t play by the rules.” On the other hand, Ocean’s subversion of categorization has raised skepticism over how influential his music is to the community, pointing out the “exaggerated praise” (Arceneaux) he receives as a queer artist. Indeed, Ocean’s subtle remarks and wilful rejection of sexual labels stand as a noticeable contrast to Lil Nas X’s bold and vivid illustrations of his queerness.

In recent years, Lil Nas X has seen exponential growth in his popularity, scoring three songs in the Billboard Top 10, and making history as the longest-running number-one hit with his song “Old Town Road” (Bowenback). In the midst of the success of his record-breaking song, he publicized his sexuality on the social media network Twitter, inviting his followers to “listen closely to c7osure” — the 7th track on his debut EP album. “c7osure”, with its title suggesting a sense of finality that reflects the artist’s quest for closure or resolution in his life, reveals X’s yearning for honesty about his identity. Lines such as “Ain’t no more actin’, man that forecast say I should just let me grow” (0:42) demonstrate his wanting for self-liberation and authenticity, paralleling Frank Ocean’s exploration of identity and emotional vulnerability in “Bad Religion.” Two years after his coming out, he released his debut album MONTERO, a bold and unapologetic expression of his queer identity.

From chanting “I don’t fuck bitches, I’m queer” (1:06) in the album’s second single “INDUSTRY BABY,” to moments of vulnerability in “SUN GOES DOWN,” Lil Nas X has taken on the responsibility to change the course of hip-hop’s homophobic and hypermasculine nature with his music. Similar to how Frank Ocean employs themes of religion, “SUN GOES DOWN” reveals Lil Nas’ internal struggles that many queer people can empathize with through lines such as “These gay thoughts would haunt me / I prayed God would take it from me” (1:06-1:11). What is important to note in the song is that X’s complex relationships to race and gender expectations do not exist in isolation from one another. As he jumps from “Are my lips too big / Is my skin too dark?” (1:01), to opening up about his sexuality, the song in itself is X’s exclamation of his intersectional identity. He affirms that his Blackness constantly goes hand-in-hand with his queerness, and by doing so, sheds light on the multi-faceted experiences that queer Black men face and underscores the importance of recognizing the complexity of their realities.

In the fourth track of his debut album “THATS WHAT I WANT,” he opens with “Need a boy who can cuddle with me all night” (0:07) while the song’s verse repeats “I want (I), someone to love me” (0:37-0:43), a refreshing perspective in comparison to the pervasive braggadocious hypersexuality that has characterized hip-hop since its popularity in the 1990s. Such authentic expressions of the desire for queer men to love and be loved in the mainstream media are extremely important in order to dismantle the racial and sexual stereotypes surrounding queer Black men. Lil Nas X’s and Frank Ocean’s representations of queerness and masculinity both express a craving for something real — genuine, human emotions that are not bound by patriarchal gender norms.

What differentiates X from Frank Ocean, however, is his loud and proud approach to depicting his sexuality through his music. While Ocean often uses subtle, layered lyrics that hint at his queer identity without explicitly stating it, Lil Nas sings openly about his queerness without saturating his lyrics with hidden meanings. This transparency in his narration could possibly account for Lil Nas X’s widespread acclaim as a queer artist, and even the commercial success of his songs. Since mainstream music is a medium that thrives off of “controversy, spectacle, and experimentation” (Staples), perhaps X’s uncompromising queerness is exactly what the industry needed to witness to realize that representation and market success are not mutually exclusive goals.

Regardless of their degree of “outness” in the industry and to the public, one cannot deny the two artists’ similarity in how they challenge hegemonic masculinity, as well as the racial stereotypes that plague the queer Black community. It would be inaccurate to say no artist has done this before — groups such as Deep Dickollective have been speaking on similar themes since decades ago, creating a space for quare resistance in the margins of rap genre. What is noteworthy about Ocean and X, however, is their presence in the commercialized music industry that has catapulted the possibility of queer rap into mainstream discourse. Even outside of their music, Ocean and Lil Nas X have pursued endeavors that seek to defy the norms of Black masculinity; accompanying his second album Blonde, Ocean released a magazine titled “Boys Don’t Cry,” in which he had included personal poems about queer relationships and emotional vulnerability (Cliff). Lil Nas X has repeatedly invoked conversations about Black queerness during interviews, proclaiming that he “100% want[s] to represent the LGBT community” (Wheeler). Denying the empowering and daring impact Ocean and Lil Nas X has had on the queer community, as well as the music industry, would be a gross misunderstanding and a shallow take on their undertakings.

Keepin’ It Real

Commercialization and the need for mass-market appeal in the music industry make it extremely difficult for hip-hop artists to sing and rap about genuine social and economic concerns, and display authentic portrayals of Black masculinity. C.P. Gause writes that “one of the distinguishing features of late-capitalist culture has been the fusing of American culture’s latent and persistent desire for blackness with consumerist desire” (41). The “deeply contradictory nature of commercial Rap music” (Rashid 345) lies in that while it sheds light on the struggles and livelihoods of Black communities, it is still marketed towards a mostly-white audience who wants to vicariously live through tough “gangsta” rappers to satiate their curiosities. The reason why gangsta rap and homophobic hypermasculine artists like DMX have risen to success is because they reflected, and oftentimes exaggerated, the racial stereotypes invented by white patriarchy.

That doesn’t mean the rap industry is a lost cause, and it definitely does not negate the importance of recognizing and supporting artists like Frank Ocean and Lil Nas X who are consciously critiquing hegemonic masculinity while representing the queer Black community who hasn’t been given the space and opportunity for genuine representations in mainstream music. Hip-hop has immense progressive potential, echoing issues of education, poverty, racism, unemployment, oppression — and, with a new wave of queer, gender-fluid, and inclusive artists: sexism, misogyny, and homophobia. The innate desire for hip-hop to be authentic and provocative drives truth and transparency in lyrics and lifestyle. It may be time to realize: Queer is the most “hip-hop” thing hip-hop can be.

1. Note: Given the lack of analysis on non-lyrical elements such as musical beats and rhythmic patterns in this paper, hip-hop and rap are used interchangeably to avoid any confusion surrounding these semantic nuances. ↩︎

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by Deng Kexin

Read the Faculty Introduction.

In 1962, “The Trial of Tantalus”, a short story by the Soviet science fiction writer Victor Saparin, was translated into English and published in the US, within an anthology named More Soviet Science Fiction. Born and educated in Moscow, Saparin was a professional journalist and editor of the Soviet popular geographic magazine Around the World, and wrote science fiction short stories throughout the 1950s and 60s. While Sarapin’s work was relatively obscure outside the Soviet Union and has not received much attention in both popular and academic circles, it is valuable in providing us insight into Soviet history, and highlighting the complex relationship between works of fiction and larger political ideas and realities. Through an analysis of Saparain’s story, the historical context of Soviet science fiction and history, and other seminal works of science fiction, I argue that “The Trial of Tantalus” provides a valuable contribution to Soviet science fiction and science fiction as a whole, as it challenges the dichotomy between utopic and dystopic visions. Specifically, “The Trial of Tantalus” challenges common ways of understanding utopianism, showing that it involves not just the act of imagining a perfect society defined by harmony, peace, and equality, but also by hiding dystopian elements that actively exist within it. Saparin’s story does so by shedding light on dystopian elements of Soviet history that are less commonly understood in the popular imagination: including the negative aspect of Soviet aid that shattered non-communist regimes, and the pervasiveness of dictatorships in the election mechanism. Therefore, viewing Saparin’s story in comparison with other notable sci-fi works, such as that by Ursula K. Le Guin, grants us new insights into the significance of the genre of science fiction, in reflecting and critiquing the social and political issues of the time. “The Trial of Tantalus” offers us a new perspective on utopianism and prompts us to consider the potential negative consequences of blindly pursuing a perfect society.

The science fiction plot of the story “The Trial of Tantalus” revolves around the investigation of a virus named Tantalus and its impact on the world, leading to a trial that determines its fate. The story is set in a world where global boundaries have been eliminated and a worldwide organization is working to combat diseases. The main character, Barch, was a past veteran of Biological Defense and visited the “gaol,” a town covered with plastic pavement and dorms made of transparent plastic material, where new varieties of diseases are developed and conquered (Saparin 125). Barch’s investigation was interrupted several times by new troubleshooting missions that took him to different parts of the world, allowing him to witness the devastating effects of the virus on Jamaican sugar cane plantations, elephants in Africa, and on the rapid growth of bamboo in the Pacific (Saparin 132). As Barch delves deeper into the mystery of the Tantalus virus, he discovers that it originated from the Amazon River and developed into ten different forms with unique characteristics due to human activities (Saparin 144). The story reaches its climax during the trial of the virus, where Tantalus is accused of causing widespread damage and wasting resources in quarantine (Saparin 145). Yet the virus is not all harmful, as it has also been found to facilitate the growth of plants, including early-stage sugar cane and bamboo (Saparin 146). During the trial, Karbyshev, the founder of the microbe preserve and a well-known figure, proposes that the virus be sentenced to a life of containment, where it will be studied and kept under strict control until experimentation obtains permanent forms with positive characteristics (Saparin 148). After much deliberation, the verdict is reached with all support and none against, thus the virus is found guilty and locked up for further study (Saparin 148).

The plot of “The Trial of Tantalus” reveals a sense of optimism about utopian beliefs, such as the removal of harmful individuals from society, reflecting Soviet scientific advancements and the slight political reforms that occurred during the Khrushchev Thaw period. This was a brief period of political liberalization in the Soviet Union from 1956 to 1964, marked by a relaxation of censorship, a loosening of restrictions on cultural and intellectual life, and a shift towards a more consumer-oriented economy. This period of political liberalization coincided with space exploration achievements in the USSR, including the launch of the Soviet Union’s first artificial earth satellite in 1957 and Yuri Gagarin’s first entering space in 1961 (Sautkin 121). In this context, “The Trial of Tantalus” reflects certain utopian beliefs, such as removing harmful individuals from society, especially in its depiction of how human beings treat a fictional virus and the natural environment. The narrator conceptualizes the containment of the natural environment, described as chaotic and primeval, through the use of ecological and gardening metaphors. For example, Barch traverses through the environment by placing a “net over a tropical forest” which is “green with a mesh,” keeping the area separate from the outside (Saparin 137). Such a physical barrier suggests that man is capable of controlling nature, which is depicted as “primeval” and dangerous. The explorers from the “Biological Defence” like Barch himself are portrayed as nearly heroic figures, with Barch depicted as “[striding] forward confidently” in spite of the dangerous environment they were in, and even finding this work to be “thrilling” (Saparin 137). Through his attentiveness to such physical barriers and the construction of Barch as a nearly heroic figure, Saparin reflects a sense of optimism about man’s ability to tame and control the natural environment, using scientific technology.

Saparin’s descriptions of human characters and the natural environment reflect a view in the Soviet Union that an ideal state must seek to remove what is deemed as ‘harmful’ to society, as a means of ‘improving’ it. As noted by Amir Weiner, in his conception of a “gardening state theory” – the Soviet state viewed groups and individuals perceived to be hostile in “biological-hygienic term,” where “whether vermin (parazity, vrediteli), pollution (zasoren- ost’), or filth (griaz’), and were subjected to ongoing purification” (1121). Here, Weiner’s notion of “purification” illuminates the significance of Saparin’s descriptions of the natural environment and the virus: where the utopic desire to remove elements that are considered deficient or less than ideal for society is reflected in the removal of harmful viruses in the “Trial of Tantalus” by locking them in a virus “prison,” the “germ gaoler” (128). Saparin’s descriptions of nature reflect a desire and confidence in the ability of human beings to mold society and its perceived harmful elements into an ideal image of prosperity and utopianism. In this light, “The Trial of Tantalus” can be seen as a reflection of utopian ideals in the Soviet state.

However, when we consider the historical context that the Soviet science fiction writers were working under, dystopian undercurrents come to light. In particular, it is important to consider this story in the context of The Soviet Science Fiction Committee, which advocated for science fiction that would strengthen political aspirations by inspiring individuals to contribute towards the Soviet Union’s progress in scientific development (Csicsery-Ronay 340). The Soviet Science Fiction Committee used incentivizing and disincentivizing means to control its writers, one featuring financial reward and occupational honor but a restrictive discourse that obstructs individualism. This control suggests that Saparin’s writing style of portraying dystopian traits under a utopian disguise reflects the tensions at the heart of the Khrushchev Thaw period – where Stalin’s dictatorship was eased, but the nightmare-like control persisted even after his death. As Istvan Csicsery-Ronay observed in “Science Fiction and the Thaw,” incentivizing methods include state-provided financial benefits like “health insurance, pensions, grants and loans, vacations, and lecture fees” (340). Disincentivizing procedures meant that writers’ language was limited to “highly restricted, formalized, and ritualistic official discourse” (340). From this context, we see that authoritarian control remained embedded in the structures of the Soviet state, even in a period of seeming liberalization and the supposed easing of the Stalinist regime.

This understanding of the historical context leads us to be attentive to the portrayal of control in Saparin’s story. Saparin alludes to the lack of freedom in creative expression and control over the subject matter of stories, in the narrative devices and structure of the story.  Saparin structures “The Trial of Tantalus” as a series of diversions for the protagonist, who is constantly diverted to secondary objectives from his original mission of investigating the Tantalus virus, by his supervisors. For example, in the middle of the story, Carey the Biological Defence Chief appoints Barch, the main protagonist, on a new mission of looking into sick elephants in Africa, calling it a “break” from the Tantalus mission, suggesting that Barch goes down there at once (133). These trips are portrayed as diversions away from Barch’s original mission of investigating the Tantalus virus. Through such diversions, Saparin highlights the reality of working as a writer within the Soviet state, where science fiction writers were compelled to engage with political concepts in their writing, rather than write fiction that was set in imaginary worlds. Saparin’s work reveals how such demands were perceived as diversions from sci-fi writing, especially by writers who had to grapple with making their works acceptable under a censorship regime. In fact, there was strict censorship before publication, as Istvan Csicsery-Ronay pointed out that “even the faintest manifestation of originality and individuality might be fatal” (340). These incentivizing and disincentivizing mechanisms worked together to obstruct the individualism of science fiction writers. With this context, Victor Saparin’s work should be seen both as a reflection of utopianism and carrying an undercurrent of dystopianism.

Given these insights, “The Trial of Tantalus” reveals how the presence of utopian ideals masks the totalizing control asserted over writers and other individuals in the Soviet era. This itself is present in the attentiveness to material objects and technological advancement in the story. As previously mentioned: Saparin does portray technological advancement as a means of restricting the chaos and dangers posed by the natural environment. However, the story also uses the material of plastic as a metaphor for the control asserted over individuals and the environment. We can see utopic connotations when Saparin describes “a town of smooth plastic pavement covered with a huge dome of transparent plastic material,” with a detailed examination of its transparent wall of “resilient material, crack-proof and bullet-proof” (Saparin 125). Here, the descriptions of plastic, such that an entire town is shown to possess a “smooth plastic pavement,” demonstrate a sense of order and perfection that lies in contrast with the chaos and unruliness of the natural environment.

However, when read in the context of other works of Soviet science fiction, we can understand how the material of plastic simultaneously serves as a metaphor for control and surveillance, and an implicit critique of Stalinist control. For example, Vladimir Nemtsov’s 1947 short novel “Apparatus SL-1,” a well-known and seminal work of Soviet science fiction, features a character named Omegin who builds a plastic house with “no sharp edges and is stable, stainless, and completely transparent” (qtd. in Schwartz 428). Similar to the transparency and resilience of Saparin’s plastic dome, the plastic over Omegin’s home hints at the pervasive use of surveillance in society, where individuals are constantly watched from outside the dome, or beyond the transparent walls of their home. By noting the similar descriptions of plastic in these two stories, we can see how Saparin uses such descriptions to introduce utopian ideals, where advancements in material science and the construction of plastic objects become a symbol of order in society, while also conveying an underlying fear about surveillance and the possibility of oppressive control over individuals. Matthias Schwartz similarly notes that plastic served as a metaphor for the oppressive and intrusive conditions in the era of late Stalinism, where individuals are “totally observ[ed], control[led], and monitor[ed]” and for scientists in particular, who were once “formerly enthusiastic writers and supporters of the Socialist project, were banished to the Siberian Gulag” (Schwartz 430). Through his descriptions of plastic, Saparin engages with the tensions of utopian visions and such dystopian practices of censorship, surveillance, and isolation. When read in the context of other science-fiction works in this time,  “The Trial of Tantalus” subtly alludes to the presence of and critiques Stalinist control.

Furthermore, “The Trial of Tantalus” advances its subtle critique of Stalinist control and the Soviet state by exploring the dystopian implications of foreign aid, drawing parallels with the historical acts of Soviet Aid to other countries. The story depicts aid as a mechanism to exert control and interfere with other nations’ governments, resulting in subordination and instability. In “The Trial of Tantalus,” Barch and his team flew around the world helping other countries with different problems, namely the damaged sugar plantation of Jamaica, a sick elephant reserve in Africa, and the rapid growth of bamboo in the Pacific region (132-140). While this aid may seem to be a utopic expression of goodwill, Saparin demonstrates how such aid challenges the possibility of an equal partnership between the Soviet states and these other regions. For example, Saparin demonstrates how the Pacific region lacks a sense of agency or participation in the trial or the fate of the Tantalus virus, even when the virus is shown to be beneficial for the growth of crops like bamboo, but is only informed about the outcome when “the announcer broadcast the decision to the world” (148). Such a lack of decision-making suggests that aid to various countries fails to prevent the consolidation of power and the establishment of a top-down sense of control by Soviet states, at the expense of a loss of self-determination and agency by other states. Such a portrayal reflects the fundamental contradictions in actual aid policies by the Soviet Union – for example, the Soviet Union’s aid in authoritarian state building in Vietnam in 1955-1991 parallels the release of a Tantalus virus in the region, where Soviet involvement led to its economic and technological strength, but also became a mechanism to exert control and interfere with other nations’ governments. When studying the relationship between Soviet aid and the stability of countries receiving the aid, Christopher Heurlin demonstrates how Soviet aid enhanced the durability of communist regimes while also shattering non-communist regimes, using various statistical models (970). Therefore, aid in “The Trial of Tantalus” holds dystopian implications when we place the behavior in the Soviet Union’s historical context.

The Soviet Union’s election mechanism, which resembled a dictatorship, is also reflected in the dystopian implications in “The Trial of Tantalus.” The voting system in the Soviet Union allowed for only one candidate and made it difficult for dissenting voices to be heard, where individuals are far more inclined to agree with the collective decision in an unthinking manner, instead of engaging in careful and personal deliberation. In the story, Saparin depicts members of the courtroom engaged in a fevered debate about what to do with the Tantalus virus, one that leads to a sudden proposal to confine all Tantalus viruses in the germ gaol, where “planned experimentation [on these viruses] can replace Nature’s hit-and miss-methods…” (Saparin 148). Such a solution is unanimously accepted, described with a voting procedure where each member of the courtroom “pressed the button on the arm of the chair and the figures changed. The results were 500 for, none against” (Saparin 148) Here, Saparin’s depiction of the trial, especially the quick way that opinions coalesced unanimously around a single figure, serves as a subtle critique of the Soviet election mechanism, pointing out ways that it gave people and their representatives a faint illusion of choice.

This critique is reflected in an examination of the Soviet Union’s voting system by Jerome Gilison, who noted that while the voting mechanism stated that voters could select their preferred candidate’s name and cross out all the others, each ballot contained one name from the “people’s bloc of Communists and non-party members” (815). Dissent was “difficult, at least potentially disadvantageous, and largely ineffectual,” as voters may have feared the dictatorship and dared not to revolt or dissent against the will of powerful leaders (Gilison 815).  Saparin reflects this reality in the trial of the virus, where the wholehearted and unanimous faith in “planned experimentation” demonstrates how the trial fails to serve as a venue for robust and nuanced discussion, but merely reflects and reinforces majority opinion and ignores all other dissenting opinions (Saparin 148). Furthermore, the way that representatives coalesced and agreed with the single opinion of Karbyshev, “the founder of the microbe preserve…a well-known figure and his opinion was respected” (Saparin 148) reflects the dominance of authoritarian-like figures over these election mechanisms. By referring to Karbyshev as the “founder of the microbe preserve,” Saparin constructs Karbyshev as one who imposes order on the chaotic populations of microbes, and even over the discussion and debate between members of the courtroom. Saparin’s depiction of the courtroom’s quick and unanimous agreement with Karbyshev, whose proposal brings a sudden resolution of a very rancorous debate through his intervention, recalls the way that Soviet elections enforced unanimity upon individuals. Therefore, “The Trial of Tantalus” implicitly features a fictional society with institutional flaws such as predetermined elections and the illusion of choice.

From the points above, we have demonstrated that Saparin’s work contributes uniquely to our perceptions of utopian and dystopian concepts, highlighting ways that both are not mutually exclusive. Saparin’s work participates in a larger conversation about the complexities of utopias and dystopias, as apparent when we place his story in the context of acclaimed works of science fiction, such as that of Ursula K. Le Guin. As a major sci-fi writer, Le Guin represents a tradition of politically engaged sci-fi works in the US, one that seeks to embed ambiguity in our conceptions of utopias and dystopias, emphasizing the connections between these two seemingly opposing conceptions of society. Comparing the two authors’ works draws attention to the ways that science fiction works lead to a more complex view of societal structures, and highlights how Saparin’s work is significant in stretching and redefining our understanding of the genre of science fiction itself.

This sense of ambiguity that both writers engage in is especially apparent in Le Guin’s most representative science fiction novel, The Dispossessed. Published in 1974, the full title of the novel “The Dispossessed – An Ambiguous Dystopia” draws attention to the imperfections of a post-revolution utopia, and redefines the concept of a utopia, at large. As Bülent Somay notes: “Utopia for her accordingly becomes a glimpsed and elusive hope founded on a consecutive set of negations and realized by personages who produce and reproduce meanings and purposes… and thereby alter both their environment and themselves” (Somay 36). In other words, a utopian society is not inherently perfect but is fundamentally unstable, and can be destabilized by its own dystopian undercurrents.

Saparin’s story adds to Le Guin’s portrayal of inherent instability and ambiguity by depicting the pursuit of a utopia as an act of continuously reconstructing and re-envisioning societal structures. In particular, Saparin suggests that the quest for utopia cannot end, unless society mistakenly believes that it has already constructed a utopia for itself. Saparin appears to envision a utopian society when the narrator notes that people no longer hold court trials against one another in this constructed world and that the “trial” of the virus was unique and singular. (Saparin 144). The lack of trials in this fictional society may be interpreted as a utopian indication that humans have become so perfect that judgments and punitive measures against criminal activity are no longer needed. However, the need to host a trial of the virus itself suggests that even such a utopian society continues to require a means of removing or dealing with that which is conceived as imperfect, such as the Tantalus virus. Saparin thus highlights a fundamental contradiction in the idea of a utopian society, whereby a perfect society without trials can only be achieved through the removal or trial of what is considered imperfect. Such a conception of society reflects the Trotskyist notion of “permanent revolution,” which Bülent Somay defines as “[the idea that] revolutionary change never ceases, then permanent deconstruction and reconstruction of ourselves… [is] an ever-changing inner mirror, in which self-reflection, as well as self-reflexivity, becomes a real possibility” (244). Somay suggests that the ambiguous structures of utopia and dystopia challenge our views of self.

In conclusion, “The Trial of Tantalus” exemplifies how science fiction is not only a product of imagination but also a reflection of the historical and social contexts in which it is created, revealing fundamental tensions and connections between utopian and dystopian visions of society. While the novel celebrates scientific progress and seems utopic in its setting, it also presents dystopian implications that may be interpreted as a commentary on Soviet history: revealing the Soviet Union to be an ambiguous mix of utopian ideals and deep dystopian undercurrents. While our current context may seem distant from the complexities of Soviet history, “The Trial of Tantalus” resonates deeply in the 2020s, especially with the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic. During this time, many have grappled with the effects of the pandemic: including the pervasive presence of authoritarian regimes and restrictive pandemic controls, while also experiencing technological advancements in the form of medicines and vaccines. In the face of these current challenges, science fiction serves as a medium to reexamine our world and imagine new possibilities: alerting us to the ways that our societies may be inclined towards utopian ideals and dystopian undercurrents in many ways. Ultimately, science fiction reveals the imperfections of our reality and inspires us to imagine a better future and a more equitable world.

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Works Cited

Arbitman, Roman, and Erik Simon. “Back in the 1960s: Notes By a Man Who Wasn’t There.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 31, no. 3, Nov. 2004, pp. 407–414. Csicsery-Ronay Jr, Istvan. “Science Fiction and the Thaw.” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 31, no.3, Nov. 2004, pp. 337–344.

Gilison, Jerome M. “Soviet Elections as a Measure of Dissent: The Missing One Percent.” American Political Science Review, vol. 62, no. 3, 1968, pp. 814–826.

Heurlin, Christopher. “Authoritarian Aid and Regime Durability: Soviet Aid to the Developing World and Donor–Recipient Institutional Complementarity and Capacity”, International Studies Quarterly, vol. 64, no. 4, Dec. 2020, pp. 968–979.

Le Guin, Ursula K. The Dispossessed: An Ambiguous Dystopia. Harper and Row, 1974.Saparin, Victor. “The Trial of Tantalus.” More Soviet Science Fiction. Collier, 1962, pp. 123-148.

Sautkin, Aleksandr, and Elena Philippova. “Science Fiction Discourse in the Ussr and Hungary: Institutionalization and Interaction in the Context of Communist Ideology.” Cogito (2066-7094), vol. 13, no. 1, Mar. 2021, pp. 118-131.

Schwartz, Matthias. “A New Poetics of Science: On the Establishment of ‘Scientific Fictional Literature’ in the Soviet Union.” Russian Review, vol. 79, no. 3, Jul. 2020, pp. 415–431.

Somay, Bülent. “From Ambiguity to Self-Reflexivity: Revolutionizing Fantasy Space.” The New Utopian Politics of Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, edited by Laurence Davis, et al. Lexington Books, 2005, pp. 233-247.

Somay, Bülent. “Towards an Open-Ended Utopia (Vers Une Utopie Ouverte).” Science Fiction Studies, vol. 11, no. 1, SF-TH Inc, 1984, pp. 25–38.

Weiner, Amir. “Nature, Nurture and Memory in a Socialist Utopia: Delineating the Soviet Socio-Ethnic Body in the Age of Socialism.” American Historical Review, vol. 104, no. 4, Oct.1999, pp. 1114–1155. https://www.jstor.org/stable/2649563

Hideko Mitani

Read the Faculty Introduction.

As I am paying the old 阿姨 behind the counter, I cannot help but zone out. I blankly smile at her and nod, not quite sure what I was agreeing to or if she was asking a question I was meant to respond to but was too busy pretending to be a local for my mediocre Chinese skills to go unnoticed. I quickly bag my groceries before there is any more time for the 阿姨 to make small talk, but it doesn’t take her much to realize I am not from here.She asks, “你是来自哪里?” (where are you from?). My heart sank a little as I answered with the exact same phrase I always use to introduce myself no matter the language, “我的妈妈是中国人。 我的爸爸是日本人。 但是我是在智利出生长大” (My mom is Chinese, my dad is Japanese, but I was born and raised in Chile). Saying these words in my noticeable foreign accent came with a stabbing feeling in the gut. This time, I did not have the upper hand of boasting my Chinese and Japanese background like I used to in Chile, deluding people into believing I am more well-versed in my heritage than I am. I can’t precisely remember how the conversation followed. I can imagine the 阿姨 said something along the lines of “Oh, that is so interesting, so you must speak many languages?” or at least that is what I am used to assuming based on my past experiences. Walking back to the dorms felt like a walk of shame, where the sense of failure I thought I had conquered was looming over me. This moment was ready to take away all the courage I mustered to accept I was never going to be  well-versed in the necessary subtext to intimately understand my Chinese heritage and culture, much less the Japanese side of my background.

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