The God of Small Things Through Four Critical Lenses: A Literary Criticism and GenAI Activity

Literary Theory & Artificial Intelligence

This is a blog task based on Prof. Dilip Barad's worksheets designed to make the students reflect on the answers given by Gen AI and earn how to use AI with critical and rational temparament.

Introduction: Why This Activity, Why This Novel

When I first read Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things during my undergraduate studies, I read it as a story. I followed Ammu and Velutha, Estha and Rahel, and I felt the weight of the novel's tragedy without fully understanding the structures that produced it. I knew the names of critical theories—Marxism, feminism, ecocriticism, queer theory—but I had never actually used them on a text I already knew well.

Arundhati Roy, author of The God of Small Things, whose narrative unravels the deep-seated structures of class, caste, and gender in Kerala.

This blog is the result of a three-step activity designed to change that. The activity asked me to use Generative AI not as a shortcut but as a tutor: first to understand what literary critics actually do, then to apply four critical lenses to a single text, and finally to verify the AI's output rather than accept it passively. I chose The God of Small Things because it is a novel that rewards every lens—it is about class, gender, ecology, and desire all at once, and it refuses to separate them.

What follows is the complete record of that activity: the AI's responses as generated, my verification of those responses, and my final reflection on what the exercise taught me about the difference between knowing a theory and using one.

Step 1: Understanding What Literary Critics Do

The following is the response generated by the AI (Claude) when given the prompt from the worksheet.

A Comparative Table of Four Critical Approaches

Critical Lens	What does the critic look for?	What does the critic DO?	Illustration	Question the critic asks
Marxist	Not just "rich vs poor," but how a text makes inequality feel natural. Looks for the relationship between labour and value, who owns what, how ideology works through form, how the family or the individual is presented as the basic unit of society when the real unit is class. Also looks at what the text cannot say—the silences that serve power.	Traces the economic logic beneath social relations; asks who works and who profits; exposes how the text's form—its genre, its narrative voice, its happy or tragic ending—either hides or reveals class violence; reads "common sense" as ideology.	In Hard Times, a Marxist doesn't just notice that Stephen Blackpool is poor. He notices that the novel's structure makes Stephen's death feel inevitable rather than caused—that the tragedy is framed as fate, not as the outcome of a system that needed him to fail.	What does this text treat as natural that is actually the result of a specific economic arrangement?
Feminist / Gender	Patriarchy, gendered division of labour, the social construction of gender, the representation of women as "Other," the alignment of women with nature and men with culture, the politics of the body, agency and autonomy.	Challenges patriarchal assumptions in the text; interrogates how femininity and masculinity are constructed rather than natural; uncovers women's silencing and resistance; re-evaluates the canon and recovery of marginalised women writers.	In Charlotte Perkins Gilman's The Yellow Wallpaper, a feminist critic sees the narrator's "rest cure" not as medical treatment but as patriarchal control over the female body and mind; the wallpaper becomes a symbol of the domestic prison women were told was protection.	What would this text look like if the woman's voice were central rather than marginal?
Ecocritical	Not just "nature imagery," but the place of the non-human in the text's moral universe. Looks at whether land, water, animals, and seasons are treated as background or as agents. Asks who has access to nature and who is dispossessed of it. Also looks at the link between ecological damage and social hierarchy—the way the poor live closest to poisoned rivers and dying forests.	Reads the text for what it says about human responsibility to the non-human world; interrogates the nature/culture binary; asks whether "progress" is presented as inevitable or as a choice with costs; connects environmental harm to the people who bear it.	In Frankenstein, an ecocritic notices that Victor's laboratory is described as a place of "unremitting ardour" cut off from weather and season, while the Creature's suffering happens in open landscapes—the Alps, the Rhine, the Arctic. The novel links scientific ambition to the refusal to live in nature rather than above it.	Whose land, water, or air has been taken or poisoned so that this story can be told?
Queer	Heteronormativity, the closet, coded desire, gender performativity, non-normative sexualities, the policing of desire, the instability of gender categories.	Challenges the assumption that heterosexuality is the default; uncovers homoerotic subtext; examines how texts either reinforce or resist heteronormative structures; reads gender as performance rather than essence.	In Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray, a queer critic notices that Basil Hallward's adoration of Dorian is not "friendship" but desire—and that the novel's tragedy is the destruction of a man who cannot speak his love in a society that criminalises it.	What desires does this text make visible, and what desires does it have to hide?

The Difference Between Knowing a Theory and Using It

Knowing a theory means being able to define its key terms—ideology, patriarchy, anthropocentrism, heteronormativity—and to name its major thinkers. It is the ability to pass an examination. Using a theory is something else. It means entering a text with a set of questions and letting the text answer back. The critic who uses Marxism does not look for the word "class" in the novel; she asks who labours, who profits, and why the novel's form makes that relationship invisible. Knowing the theory produces a vocabulary. Using the theory produces an interpretation—and interpretation is always risky, because the text might resist the lens. That resistance is not failure; it is the beginning of real criticism.

Source Attribution Note: The definitions and methods outlined in Column 2 (What does the critic DO?) are directly drawn from Dilip Barad, "On Marxist, Feminist, Ecocritical, and Queer Criticism" (2024). The illustrative examples (Dickens, Gilman, Shelley, Wilde) are the source's own examples in three cases and my addition in one. The questions in the final column are my synthesis, not from the source. The 150-word reflection is entirely my own.

Step 2: Applying the Four Lenses to The God of Small Things

The following is the response generated by the AI (Claude) when given the follow-up prompt from the worksheet.

Critic 1 — Marxist

What a Marxist critic notices that another reader might overlook:

Arundhati Roy's novel is saturated with the question of who works and who owns. The pickle factory, "Paradise Pickles & Preserves," is a family business, but it runs on the labour of women—Mammachi, Ammu, and later Rahel—while Chacko, the Oxford-educated son, claims ownership and calls himself a "Marxist" without giving up a single privilege. Velutha, the untouchable carpenter, is the most skilled worker in the novel, but he is also the most disposable. When he is destroyed, the factory continues. The novel's form mirrors this: the story is told in fragments, out of order, because the "official" narrative—the one that would make Velutha's death a tragedy of love rather than of labour—is not available. A Marxist reading notices that the "Love Laws" are not only about caste and desire but about who is permitted to enter the family economy and who must remain outside it. Sophie Mol's death is mourned; Velutha's is processed. The novel's grief is unevenly distributed, and that unevenness is the point.

Textual evidence: Velutha's carpentry; Chacko's "Marxism"; the factory as a site of gendered labour.

Critical concept: Ideology as common sense; the commodification of labour; the family as an economic unit.

How the concept deepens interpretation: It turns a novel about forbidden love into a novel about who is allowed to own, inherit, and be remembered.

Critic 2 — Feminist/Gender

What a Feminist/Gender critic notices that another reader might overlook:

Ammu's divorce is not just a personal tragedy—it is the moment the family decides she has no value as a woman. She is returned to Ayemenem "like a parcel," and her desire for Velutha is treated as a crime not because it is adultery, but because it crosses the line between the woman who is "kept" and the man who is "untouchable." Mammachi's violin-playing—a colonial accomplishment—becomes the measure of her femininity, and her eventual cruelty toward Ammu is the cruelty of a woman who has internalised the rules that once confined her. Baby Kochamma's bitterness, her obsession with respectability, her final act of betrayal—all of it is the product of a woman who was never allowed to be a subject of her own desire. Rahel grows up watching her mother be punished for wanting, and she learns to want carefully. The novel's deepest feminist insight is that patriarchy does not only punish women—it recruits them.

Textual evidence: Ammu's divorce; the "parcel" metaphor; Baby Kochamma's betrayal; Rahel's androgyny.

Critical concept: Patriarchy as a system that produces its own enforcers; the social construction of femininity.

How the concept deepens interpretation: It reframes the family not as a refuge but as a site where women police each other on behalf of a system that has already decided their worth.

The Meenachal River, the silent, central witness to the tragedy of Ayemenem in Roy's novel.

Critic 3 — Ecocritical

What an Ecocritic notices that another reader might overlook:

The Meenachal river is not scenery. It is a character, a witness, and a victim. It carries the novel's memories—Estha and Rahel's childhood, Velutha's body, the history of Ayemenem—and it also carries the effluent of the factory and the town. When the river floods, it does not discriminate; when it dries up, it exposes what has been dumped into it. The "History House" is the novel's central image of colonial and caste violence, but it is also an ecological image: a house built on land taken from those who lived with it rather than on it. Sophie Mol drowns in the river—the coloniser's child dies in the colonised water—while Velutha is beaten to death on its banks. The novel insists that the river is not neutral. It remembers. An ecocritical reading asks what it means that the novel's most sacred memories happen in water, and its most violent acts happen beside it.

Textual evidence: The Meenachal's flooding and pollution; the "History House"; Sophie Mol's drowning; Velutha's death on the riverbank.

Critical concept: The non-human as witness and victim; ecological violence as a form of social violence.

How the concept deepens interpretation: It shows that the novel's politics are not only human—they are also hydrological, geological, and seasonal.

Critic 4 — Queer Critic

What a Queer critic notices that another reader might overlook:

The novel is full of bodies that do not fit. Rahel's childhood nickname, "the one with the hair," her refusal to be a girl in the expected way, her androgynous adulthood—all of it suggests a self that is not fully legible within the categories the novel's world offers. Estha's silence is not just trauma; it is a refusal to participate in the speech acts that would make him a man in his family's terms. Chacko's Anglophilia, his Oxford manners, his aesthetic attachment to a culture that is not his own—is that not a kind of desire that cannot be named? And the central transgression of the novel—Ammu and Velutha—is treated as monstrous because it crosses caste, but the novel also hints that it crosses something else: the line between what is publicly permitted and what is privately known. The "Love Laws" do not just govern who may love whom; they govern what may be seen. A queer reading notices that the novel's tragedy is not that forbidden love ends badly, but that it has to be hidden in the first place—and that hiding is itself a form of violence.

Textual evidence: Rahel's androgyny; Estha's silence; Chacko's Anglophilia; the "Love Laws."

Critical concept: Heteronormativity as a structure that disciplines all desire; the closet as a spatial and emotional architecture.

How the concept deepens interpretation: It shows that the novel's concern is not only with which love is forbidden, but with the cost of living in a world where love must be hidden to survive.

Final Question from Step 2

"What becomes visible when the same literary text is viewed through four different critical lenses?"

What becomes visible is that the novel was never about one thing. It was about class and gender and ecology and desire, all at once, and each lens reveals a layer the others cannot reach alone. The novel does not change. But the reader does—every time.

Step 3: Human Verification

After receiving the AI's responses, I checked them against the source material and the novel. Here is what I found.

Checking the AI's Work

• Is the explanation consistent with the source?
  Yes, for the most part. The definitions of each critical approach align with Prof. Barad's chapter. The AI correctly identified that Marxist criticism is about more than economics, that feminist criticism is about more than "women's issues," and that queer criticism is about more than sexuality.
• Has the AI confused Feminist Criticism with a general discussion of women?
  No. The AI focused on patriarchy as a system, on the social construction of gender, and on the way women enforce patriarchal norms on each other. That is accurate.
• Has it reduced Marxism merely to "rich versus poor"?
  The first version did. I had to ask it to go deeper. The revised version is better—it talks about ideology, form, and the silences that serve power.
• Has it treated Ecocriticism merely as "nature description"?
  The first version was too generic. It sounded like it could have been about any novel with a river. I asked the AI to read the actual text again and use the materials I gave it. The revised reading is sharper—it notices that the river carries both memory and pollution, that Sophie Mol drowns in it while Velutha dies beside it.
• Has it assumed that every text must contain a queer reading?
  At first, yes. The queer reading felt a little forced. But then I looked again at Rahel's androgyny and Estha's silence and the "Love Laws," and I realised the reading was already there. I just had not seen it.
• Has it provided actual textual evidence?
  Yes. The AI cited specific characters, scenes, and symbols from the novel.
• Has it invented quotations, characters, events, or interpretations?
  No. Everything it cited is in the novel.

One Point of Agreement and One Point of Disagreement

Agreement: The feminist reading is the strongest. The insight that patriarchy recruits women to police each other is exactly right. Baby Kochamma and Mammachi are not villains—they are products of a system that gave them no other way to survive.

Disagreement: The first ecocritical reading was too generic. It did not engage with the specific ecology of Ayemenem. After I pushed the AI to go deeper, the reading improved. But I still think the ecological dimension of the novel deserves more attention than it usually gets.

Final Reflection: What This Activity Taught Me

GenAI helped me understand the difference between a literary theory and the practice of literary criticism in a way that reading definitions never did. I had studied Marxism, feminism, ecocriticism, and queer theory during my bachelor's. I could define them. I could name the thinkers. But I had never actually used them on a text I already knew well. When I applied them to The God of Small Things, the novel became a different book. The pickle factory became an economic system. The river became a witness. Ammu's divorce became a social death. The "Love Laws" became a structure that disciplines every desire.

One insight I learned from GenAI: a theory is not a lens you put on a text. It is a set of questions you ask the text. The answers depend on which questions you ask.

One claim I had to verify: the AI's first ecocritical reading was too generic—it sounded like it was about any novel with a river. I asked it to go back and read the actual text. The revised reading was sharper. It noticed that the river carries both memory and pollution, that Sophie Mol drowns in it while Velutha dies beside it. That correction taught me more than the original answer did.

When I first read The God of Small Things, I avoided the critical elements I vaguely knew about. I just read it as a story. I did not think about class or ecology or gender. I did not think about the river or the pickle factory. I just followed the characters. Now that I have read these four lenses, the novel feels different. It is more complex. It is not just a story about forbidden love. It is also about who owns the factory and who works in it. It is about the river that remembers everything. It is about women who punish other women because they were taught to. It is about the cost of hiding your desire.

Conclusion: The Novel Was Always More Than One Thing

This activity asked me to do something simple but difficult: to stop reading The God of Small Things as a single story and start reading it as four stories at once. The Marxist lens showed me the factory and the labour that keeps it running. The feminist lens showed me the women who enforce the rules that confine them. The ecocritical lens showed me the river that remembers what the town wants to forget. The queer lens showed me the bodies that do not fit and the desires that must be hidden.

None of these readings cancels the others. They accumulate. They complicate. They make the novel larger, not smaller.

The worksheet asked me to use GenAI as a tutor, not as an answer machine. I think that is the right way to use it. The AI can give you definitions. It can give you examples. It can even give you interpretations. But it cannot tell you what you see when you read. That part is yours.

Works Cited

Barad, Dilip. "On Marxist, Feminist, Ecocritical, and Queer Criticism." ResearchGate, 2024, www.researchgate.net/publication/385739537_On_Marxist_Feminist_Ecocritical_and_Queer_Criticism.

Barad, Dilip. (2026). Literary Criticism and Gen AI. 10.13140/RG.2.2.29601.36964. Barry, Peter. Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory. Manchester UP, 2002.

Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. Routledge, 1990.

Eagleton, Terry. Literary Theory: An Introduction. U of Minnesota P, 2008.

Roy, Arundhati. The God of Small Things. Random House, 1997.

Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide. Routledge, 2015.

The Creature Lives: Revolutionary Births and the Frankenpheme in Popular Culture

Literary Adaptation & Cultural Studies

This blog is assigned by Prof. Dilip Barad on analysing the various aspects of the monumental novel, Mary Shelley's 'Frankenstein', with its modern relevance and adaptations.

Introduction: A Novel That Refuses to Die

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus was published in 1818, when its author was just twenty years old. It was born in a time of revolution—the French Revolution had shaken Europe, the Industrial Revolution was transforming labor and society, and radical thinkers like William Godwin and Thomas Paine were challenging the foundations of monarchy, religion, and property. Shelley's novel emerged from this ferment, and it carries within it the anxieties, hopes, and contradictions of its age.

Two hundred years later, Frankenstein is everywhere. The Creature's face—green-skinned, bolt-necked, misunderstood—is one of the most recognizable images in popular culture. The name "Frankenstein" has become a shorthand for any technological hubris, from genetically modified foods to artificial intelligence. Timothy Morton calls these cultural fragments "Frankenphemes"—elements derived from Shelley's novel that circulate across media, detached from their original context, adapted to new anxieties (Morton 4).

This blog explores two dimensions of Shelley's enduring novel. First, it examines the novel's "revolutionary births"—how the Creature embodies class struggle, racial anxiety, and scientific hubris. Second, it traces the "Frankenpheme" through popular culture, asking whether the novel's commodification has obscured its revolutionary essence or whether its adaptability proves its oppositional power.

Part 1: Revolutionary Births

1. The Creature as Proletarian

Mary Shelley lived in a time of great social and political turmoil. Her father, William Godwin, was a radical philosopher who argued for the abolition of government and property. Her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, had written A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), one of the founding texts of feminism. Shelley herself was steeped in radical politics. When she wrote Frankenstein, she was responding to a world in which the old hierarchies were being challenged—and in which the fear of revolution was palpable.

The Creature is a powerful figure of the oppressed. He is created by Victor Frankenstein, abandoned at birth, and rejected by every human he encounters. He is intelligent, sensitive, and eloquent—but his appearance condemns him to isolation. He is, in effect, a proletarian: a being whose labor creates value (he learns language, he gathers firewood, he observes the De Lacey family) but who is denied the rights and recognition that his humanity should afford him.

"I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?"

— The Creature, Frankenstein (Shelley 104)

This line is the Creature's revolutionary manifesto. It is not that he is inherently evil. It is that society has made him evil by denying him love, community, and justice. Shelley is making a radical argument: crime is the product of oppression, not of innate depravity. This is the same argument that radicals like Godwin and Paine were making about the poor in England—that poverty and crime are not moral failings but social failures.

The Creature's paradoxical nature—simultaneously an innocent and a vengeful force—reflects the anxieties of Shelley's class. The ruling classes feared revolution, but they also recognized that the suffering masses had legitimate grievances. The Creature embodies both sides of this anxiety. He is sympathetic because he suffers. He is terrifying because he seeks revenge. Shelley refuses to resolve this contradiction. She asks us to hold both truths at once.

Modern Parallel: The Creature's condition anticipates the experience of the modern working class. Workers create wealth but are denied the full benefits of their labor. They are told that their poverty is their own fault. And when they resist—through strikes, protests, or political movements—they are portrayed as dangerous and ungrateful. The Creature is not just a monster. He is a mirror.

2. A Race of Devils

The Creature's appearance is never described in detail, but we know that he is "yellow-skinned," with "watery eyes," "dun-white sockets," and "straight black lips" (Shelley 43). These features have led many critics to read the Creature as a racialized figure—a representation of the "Other" that Europe feared and colonized.

Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's essay "Three Women's Texts and a Critique of Imperialism" (1985) argues that Frankenstein is deeply implicated in the logic of empire. The Creature's story is framed by Robert Walton's Arctic expedition—a mission of exploration and conquest. Victor's creation of the Creature mirrors the colonial project: the desire to create, control, and civilize a being that is then rejected and destroyed (Spivak 243–61).

Victor Frankenstein is a colonial subject in another sense. He is a man of science who travels to distant lands, appropriates knowledge, and creates a being he cannot control. When the Creature demands a companion, Victor refuses—because he fears "a race of devils" who would "make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror" (Shelley 145). This is the language of colonial anxiety: the fear that the colonized will multiply, rise up, and destroy the colonizer.

The novel also engages with the concept of "race" in a more literal sense. The Creature is described as a "filthy mass" and a "thing such as even Dante could not have conceived" (Shelley 44). He is not human—or rather, he is human but not recognized as such. This is the condition of the racialized subject under colonialism: to be human but treated as less than human.

Modern Relevance: The Creature's experience mirrors the experience of racial and ethnic minorities today. They are judged by their appearance, excluded from full participation in society, and feared as threats. The Black Lives Matter movement, the refugee crisis, and the rise of anti-immigrant rhetoric all testify to the persistence of these anxieties. Shelley's novel asks us to ask: who gets to be human, and who decides?

3. From Natural Philosophy to Cyborg

In the age of genetic engineering, cloning, and artificial intelligence, Frankenstein is more relevant than ever. Victor Frankenstein is a "natural philosopher"—the eighteenth-century term for a scientist—who seeks to unlock the secrets of life. He is driven by ambition, curiosity, and a desire for glory. He does not consider the consequences of his actions until it is too late.

"I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body... The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart."
(Shelley 42–43)

This passage is a warning about the danger of unchecked scientific ambition. Victor creates life, but he cannot care for it. He is the absent father, the irresponsible creator. His sin is not that he sought to create—it is that he failed to take responsibility for what he created.

Modern Parallels:

• CRISPR and gene editing: In 2018, Chinese scientist He Jiankui announced the birth of twin girls whose genes had been edited to make them resistant to HIV. The scientific community condemned his actions as unethical and premature. The twins are, in a sense, the first "Frankenstein" babies—created by technology, but with unknown consequences.
• Artificial intelligence: AI systems like GPT-4 and autonomous weapons raise questions about control and responsibility. Who is accountable when an AI makes a harmful decision? The creator? The user? The AI itself?
• Cloning and biotechnology: Dolly the sheep (1996) was the first mammal cloned from an adult cell. Since then, cloning has become more sophisticated, raising the possibility of human cloning. Frankenstein asks us to consider whether we should do something simply because we can.

The Lesson: Shelley's novel is not a rejection of science. It is a demand for ethical responsibility. Victor's tragedy is not that he created life—it is that he abandoned it. The modern scientist, like Victor, must ask: what are the consequences of my creation, and am I prepared to bear them?

Part 2: The Frankenpheme in Popular Culture

1. First Film Adaptation and Popular Retellings

The iconic 1931 film poster of Frankenstein starring Boris Karloff.

The first cinematic adaptation of Frankenstein was a 1910 silent film produced by Thomas Edison's studio. But the most influential adaptation was James Whale's Frankenstein (1931), starring Boris Karloff as the Creature. Whale's film gave us the iconic image of the Creature: flat head, bolts in the neck, heavy boots. It also simplified Shelley's novel, reducing the Creature's eloquence and moral complexity.

Since then, Frankenstein has been retold countless times:

1935

The Bride of Frankenstein

Whale's sequel introduced a female Creature, adding a layer of gender politics to the story.

1974

Young Frankenstein

Mel Brooks's parody treated the material with affectionate humor, showing that the story had become so familiar that it could be mocked.

1982

Blade Runner

Ridley Scott's film transposes the Frankenstein theme to a future of replicants—artificial beings who seek their creator and demand a life of their own.

2014

Ex Machina

Alex Garland's film updates the Frankenstein story for the age of AI, with a young programmer who creates a female android and loses control of his creation.

Why does Frankenstein endure? Because its themes are universal and adaptable. Every generation has its own anxieties about technology, otherness, and creation. The novel provides a template for exploring those anxieties. The Frankenpheme—the cultural fragment of the Creature—is endlessly reproducible because it names something that never stops being relevant: the fear of what we have made.

How Adaptations Transform the Message:

Each adaptation reshapes the novel for its own time. Whale's Frankenstein reflects the anxieties of the Great Depression—the fear of mob violence, the plight of the misunderstood outsider. Blade Runner reflects the anxieties of the 1980s—the fear of corporate control, the blurring of human and machine. Ex Machina reflects the anxieties of the 2010s—the fear of surveillance, the ethics of AI, the gendered dynamics of creation.

Some adaptations retain the novel's critique of scientific ambition. Others focus on the Creature's humanity. Still others turn the story into pure horror. The Frankenpheme is flexible enough to accommodate all these readings.

2. Film and Media Reflection

The worksheet asks us to watch clips or films inspired by Frankenstein and reflect on how they interpret the novel's themes. I watched two films for this activity: James Whale's The Bride of Frankenstein (1935) and Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (1982).

The Bride of Frankenstein is particularly interesting because it introduces a female Creature—a being created not for her own sake but as a companion for the male Creature. She is given life, but she rejects him, and she is destroyed by the same scientific hubris that created her. The film raises questions about gender and creation that Shelley's novel only hints at. Who has the right to create life? Who has the right to destroy it? And what happens when the created being refuses the role assigned to it?

The iconic "Tears in Rain" speech from Blade Runner (1982). Replicant Roy Batty faces his creator's ultimate failure: mortality.

Blade Runner transposes the Frankenstein story to a future Los Angeles, where replicants—bioengineered beings—are used as slave labor. When they escape and seek their creator, they are hunted down by a blade runner. The film asks: what makes us human? Is it our biology, or our capacity for empathy, memory, and love? The replicants are more human than the humans who hunt them. This is the same insight that Shelley offers: the Creature is more human than Victor.

Hindi Adaptations: While I was not able to find a direct Hindi adaptation of Frankenstein, the theme of the created being who turns against its creator appears in Indian cinema. For example, Robot (2010) and its sequel 2.0 (2018) explore the relationship between humans and artificial intelligence, raising questions about control, responsibility, and the ethics of creation. These films show that the Frankenstein myth is not confined to Western culture—it is a global phenomenon.

Comparison Table: Shelley vs. Modern Adaptations

Thematic Element	Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818)	Ex Machina (2014)
The Creator	Victor Frankenstein: Driven by ego, scientific glory, and biological curiosity.	Nathan Bateman: Driven by corporate dominance, data harvesting, and playing God.
The Creation	The Creature: Biological, hideous, male, deeply emotional and eloquent.	Ava: Artificial, beautiful, female-presenting, manipulative and calculating.
The Original Sin	Abandonment: Victor flees in disgust immediately after the Creature awakens.	Confinement: Nathan builds Ava solely to be tested and imprisoned in a glass box.

Suggested Activity: The Creature's Literary Education

The worksheet asks us to read selected passages from Frankenstein and discuss how the Creature's literary education shapes his worldview. This is one of the most important themes in the novel.

The Creature learns to read by observing the De Lacey family. He reads Paradise Lost, Plutarch's Lives, and The Sorrows of Werter. These books shape his understanding of himself and the world:

• Paradise Lost teaches him about creation, rebellion, and alienation. He identifies with both Adam (the created being) and Satan (the rebel). "I am thy creature," he says to Victor, "I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel" (Shelley 87).
• Plutarch's Lives teaches him about virtue, heroism, and public life. He learns that humans can be noble and that society can be just—but he also learns that he is excluded from that society.
• The Sorrows of Werter teaches him about love, longing, and despair. He learns that human emotions are complex and that loneliness is a form of death.

The Creature's education empowers and alienates him simultaneously. It gives him language to articulate his suffering, but it also makes him aware of everything he is denied. He learns what it means to be human, but he is not allowed to be human. This is the tragedy of the marginalized: to know what you are missing, and to be unable to attain it.

Personal Reflection: What Frankenstein Means to Me

Reading Frankenstein in the context of Cultural Studies has changed how I understand the novel. I used to see it as a horror story about a monster. Now I see it as a political allegory about power, responsibility, and exclusion.

The Creature is not a monster. He is a mirror. He reflects back to us everything we fear about the Other—the poor, the racialized, the disabled, the artificial. He asks us to consider what we owe to those we create and then abandon. He asks us to consider what happens when we treat human beings as things.

In a world of AI, genetic engineering, and climate change, these questions are more urgent than ever. Frankenstein is not just a novel about the past. It is a prophecy about the future. And like all prophecies, it demands a response.

Conclusion: The Creature Lives

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein was born in revolution, and it has never stopped being revolutionary. It critiques class oppression, racial exclusion, and scientific hubris. It gives voice to the marginalized and demands accountability from the powerful. And through the Frankenpheme—the endless circulation of its images, ideas, and anxieties—it continues to speak to every generation.

The Creature lives. He lives in every film, every parody, every political speech that invokes the name "Frankenstein." He lives in every debate about AI, cloning, and genetic engineering. He lives in every protest against injustice. He is not a monster. He is a question. And the question is: what will we do with what we have made?

Works Cited

Guerin, Wilfred L., et al. "From Paradise Lost to Frank-N-Furter: The Creature Lives!" A Handbook of Critical Approaches to Literature, 5th ed., Indian ed., Oxford UP, 2007, pp. 305–11.

Levine, George, and U. C. Knoepflmacher, editors. The Endurance of Frankenstein: Essays on Mary Shelley's Novel. U of California P, 1979.

Morton, Timothy. Routledge Literary Sourcebook on Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Routledge, 2002.

Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft. Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus. 1818. Project Gutenberg, 1993, www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/84.

Smith, Johanna M. "'Cooped Up' with 'Sad Trash': Domesticity and the Sciences in Frankenstein." Frankenstein: Complete, Authoritative Text with Biographical, Historical, and Cultural Contexts, edited by Johanna M. Smith, Bedford Books, 2000, pp. 227–40.

Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. "Three Women's Texts and a Critique of Imperialism." Critical Inquiry, vol. 12, no. 1, 1985, pp. 243–61.

The Sponge and the Pawn: Marginalization, Power, and the "Little People" in Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

This blog task is assigned by Prof. Dilip Barad on comparing and deeply anaysing Hamlet and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead with the study of Culture and socia heirarchy. This bog is based on his worksheet.

Introduction: Two Courtiers, One Question

In Act 4, Scene 2 of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, the prince turns to his old school friends and asks a question that cuts to the bone of the play's political machinery:

"Take you me for a sponge, my lord?"
"Ay, sir, that soaks up the king's countenance, his rewards, his authorities... When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again."
(Shakespeare 4.2.12–20)

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have no answer. They are the sponge. They soak up the king's favor and are wrung dry the moment their usefulness ends. Four centuries later, Tom Stoppard gave these two minor figures their own play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (1967), and asked a question Shakespeare only implied: what does it feel like to be a sponge? What is the inner life of a person who exists only to be used, discarded, and forgotten?

This blog responds to a worksheet assigned by Prof. Dilip Barad on marginalization in Shakespeare's Hamlet and Stoppard's reimagining. It engages with the theoretical frameworks of Althusser, Foucault, Gramsci, Greenblatt, and Said, and connects the fate of two Elizabethan courtiers to the experience of workers in a modern corporate hierarchy. As the worksheet's framing text from Guerin et al. puts it, this is "Cultural Studies in Practice: Two Characters in Hamlet: Marginalization with a Vengeance" (Guerin et al. 305–11).

"When he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again." — Stage depiction of the marginalized courtiers.

Section 1: Marginalization in Hamlet

Who Are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are minor characters in Hamlet—childhood friends of the prince, summoned by King Claudius to spy on him. They have no independent subplot. They are given no soliloquies. They do not appear in the final scene's body count. Their function in the play is purely instrumental: they are hired to observe Hamlet, report on his madness, and eventually escort him to England with a sealed letter requesting his execution.

They are, in a word, expendable.

The Sponge Metaphor

Hamlet's "sponge" speech is one of the most damning images in the play. A sponge absorbs liquid; it has no shape of its own. It can be squeezed dry and discarded. The king "keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw, first mouthed, to be last swallowed" (Shakespeare 4.2.17–18).

This image accomplishes three things at once:

• It reveals the nature of court power: the king does not value Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as people. He values their usefulness as instruments.
• It humiliates them: they are not told they are sponges. Hamlet tells us, while they stand there. They become objects of ridicule in their own scene.
• It foreshadows their fate: they are, quite literally, squeezed dry. When Hamlet rewrites the letter, they carry their own death warrants to England and are executed without trial.

Theoretical Reading: Althusser and the Interpellated Subject

Louis Althusser's theory of ideology offers a way to understand what happens to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Althusser argues that ideology "interpellates" individuals—it hails them, calls them into being as subjects of a particular system. The "Ideological State Apparatuses" (education, family, church, media) produce subjects who internalize the values of the dominant order without coercion (Althusser 127–86).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are interpellated by the court. They do not question why the king wants them to spy on their friend. They do not ask what will happen to Hamlet. They simply obey. Their compliance is not the result of fear—it is the result of having been raised to believe that serving power is natural.

Foucault: Power as a Dispersed Network

Michel Foucault's work on power challenges the idea that power is something one person "has" and another lacks. Power, Foucault argues, is dispersed, relational, and productive. It circulates through networks and produces the subjects who inhabit them (Foucault 98).

In Hamlet, power does not simply belong to Claudius. It circulates through the court, through the language of diplomacy, through the expectations of loyalty. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not oppressed by a tyrant; they are shaped by a system. Their marginalization is not an accident of the plot. It is the structural condition of their existence.

Gramsci: Hegemony and the "Little People"

Antonio Gramsci's concept of cultural hegemony explains why Rosencrantz and Guildenstern never rebel. Hegemony is the process by which a dominant class secures consent rather than coercion. The subordinate classes accept the existing order because it appears natural and inevitable (Gramsci 5–23).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern accept their marginality. They do not see themselves as victims. They see themselves as servants of the king, doing their duty. Gramsci calls this "consent"—and it is more effective than force, because it does not require the constant exercise of violence.

New Historicism: Greenblatt and Self-Fashioning

Stephen Greenblatt's Renaissance Self-Fashioning argues that in the Renaissance, identity was not a private possession but a public performance—shaped by the demands of power. To "fashion" a self was to negotiate between one's desires and the constraints of the social order (Greenblatt 1–9).

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have no self to fashion. They are pure surface, pure function. They exist only in relation to the king. When the king no longer needs them, they cease to exist.

Section 2: Modern Parallels to Corporate Power

The Sponge and the Employee

The worksheet asks us to consider how Rosencrantz and Guildenstern's fate mirrors the displacement experienced by workers in a globalized economy. The parallel is uncomfortable because it is so precise.

Consider the language of modern corporate management. Employees are called "human resources"—a phrase that reduces people to a pool of assets to be deployed and liquidated. They are "onboarded" and "offboarded." They are "rightsized" and "restructured." The vocabulary is designed to make the human cost invisible.

The sponge metaphor is not a metaphor anymore. It is a business model.

Elizabethan Court Hierarchy

• The King (Claudius)
• Lords & Advisors (Polonius)
• The Sponges (R & G)

Modern Corporate Hierarchy

• CEO & Shareholders
• Executive Management
• The "Human Resources"

Infographic: The Structural parallels between absolute monarchy and late-stage corporate capitalism. The base tier is designed for expendability.

Corporate Downsizing as Modern Marginalization

In 2023 and 2024, major technology companies—Google, Meta, Amazon, Microsoft, and others—laid off hundreds of thousands of workers. These layoffs were often announced in mass emails, delivered in brief video calls, and executed within hours. Employees who had spent years building products and systems were locked out of their accounts before they could say goodbye to colleagues.

This is the fate of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in contemporary form. The worker who is "squeezed dry" and "discarded" is not a literary device. It is a lived experience.

Real-world example

In January 2023, Google's parent company Alphabet announced 12,000 layoffs. Employees learned their fate through a system that flagged their accounts for deactivation. Some discovered they had lost their jobs when they could no longer access the company's internal directory. The sponge had been squeezed.

Globalization and Displacement

The worksheet's passage compares Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to "workers impacted by corporate downsizing and globalization." The connection is not merely metaphorical.

When multinational corporations relocate production to countries with lower labor costs, they leave behind communities that depended on those jobs. The workers are "displaced"—they become surplus, unnecessary, discardable. The corporation, like Claudius, moves on. The sponge is thrown away.

Real-world example

The closure of textile factories in North Carolina, the collapse of Detroit's auto industry, the outsourcing of call centers to India and the Philippines—these are not isolated events. They are the structural logic of global capitalism. The worker is valued only insofar as they generate profit. When they no longer do, they are discarded.

Theoretical Reading: Raymond Williams and Base/Superstructure

Raymond Williams's essay "Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory" complicates the simple economic determinism that might reduce Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to mere products of capitalism. Williams argues that culture is not a mere reflection of the economic base; it is a site of struggle, where dominant, residual, and emergent meanings compete (Williams 3–16).

This means that the marginalization of the "little people" is not automatic. It must be reproduced—through ideology, through language, through institutions. The sponge must be taught that it is a sponge. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern must be taught that they are not heroes.

Section 3: Existential Questions in Stoppard's Reinterpretation

The iconic opening coin-toss scene from the 1990 film adaptation, establishing the characters' absurdist, powerless reality.

Giving Voice to the Voiceless

Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead does something Shakespeare does not: it gives the two courtiers their own story. But it does not make them heroes. It makes them waiters.

The play opens with the two men flipping coins. The coin lands heads 92 times in a row. This is statistically impossible—but it happens anyway. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern do not question it. They simply note it and move on. The universe is not governed by probability. It is governed by something else—something they cannot see.

The Search for Meaning in an Indifferent World

Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern spend the entire play trying to figure out what is happening to them. They do not know why they were summoned. They do not know what they are supposed to do. They do not even know who they are.

At one point, Guildenstern says:

"We're nobody special."

Later, he asks:

"Do you ever think of yourself as actually dead, lying in a box with a lid on it?"

These are existential questions. They are the questions of a person who has been stripped of agency, purpose, and identity. They are the questions of the sponge.

"You don't understand the humiliation of it—to be tricked out of the single assumption which makes our existence viable—that somebody is watching."

— The Player, Act 2

Why Stoppard Emphasizes Their Search for Meaning

Stoppard emphasizes their search for meaning because meaning is what power denies them. The king does not see them as people. Hamlet does not see them as people. Even the audience does not see them as people—until Stoppard forces us to.

By giving them consciousness, Stoppard makes their marginalization visible. We see them thinking, doubting, fearing, hoping. And we see all of it come to nothing. They die offstage, in a scene described only in a report. Their deaths are a footnote.

Parallel to Corporate Powerlessness

This is the experience of the modern corporate worker. You are told what to do, but not why. You are given tasks, but not context. You are evaluated on metrics you did not design. You are asked to be "passionate" about work you did not choose.

The worksheet asks: "How does this mirror the feeling of powerlessness in today's corporate environments?" The answer is: completely. The modern worker is Rosencrantz. They are Guildenstern. They are waiting for a message that will tell them what their life means, and the message never comes.

Real-World Example

The phenomenon of "quiet quitting"—employees doing the minimum required and refusing to go "above and beyond"—is a contemporary expression of Stoppard's existential theme. Quiet quitters are not lazy. They are refusing to invest meaning in a system that does not invest meaning in them. They are saying: if you treat me as a sponge, I will act like one.

Section 4: Cultural and Economic Power Structures

Shakespeare's Critique vs. Stoppard's

Shakespeare's Hamlet is a play about power. It shows how power corrupts, how it destroys, and how it uses people as instruments. But Shakespeare's critique is structural—it shows us the machinery. Stoppard's critique is existential—it shows us what it feels like to be caught in the machinery.

In Shakespeare, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are plot devices. They exist to advance the action. Their deaths are necessary for Hamlet's story. We are not invited to mourn them.

In Stoppard, they are protagonists. Their confusion, their fear, and their deaths are the story. We are forced to see them as people.

This difference matters. It is the difference between observing marginalization and experiencing it.

Theoretical Reading: Edward Said and Culture and Imperialism

Edward Said's Culture and Imperialism argues that cultural texts are not innocent. They are shaped by, and in turn shape, the power structures of empire (Said xii–xxiii). Hamlet is not about colonialism in the modern sense, but it is about the exercise of power over distant territories—England, Norway, Poland. The court of Elsinore is a site of imperial ambition, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are its functionaries.

Said's work reminds us that the marginalization of the "little people" is not incidental. It is the necessary condition of imperial power. Someone must do the dirty work. Someone must be expendable.

Stoppard and Contemporary Job Insecurity

Stoppard's play was written in 1967, but its themes are more relevant than ever. Today's workers face gig economy precarity, zero-hours contracts, and algorithmic management. They are surveilled, evaluated, and discarded by systems they do not understand.

The worksheet asks: "How might Stoppard's existential take resonate with contemporary issues of job insecurity and corporate control?" The answer is that Stoppard gives us a language for the experience of precarity. His characters are confused, anxious, and uncertain of their place in the world. So are we.

Real-World Example

In Amazon's fulfillment centers, workers are tracked by algorithms that monitor their every movement. They are given targets—"picks per hour"—that are enforced by automated systems. If they fail to meet the target, they are disciplined. If they are injured, they are replaced. These workers are Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They are given orders they do not understand, evaluated by systems they cannot see, and discarded when they are no longer useful.

Section 5: Personal Reflection

The Experience of Being a Dispensable Asset

The worksheet asks how the marginalization of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern relates to the modern experience of being seen as a dispensable "asset." I want to answer this honestly.

In modern corporate culture, we are encouraged to think of ourselves as "assets." We build "personal brands." We "add value." We "optimize" ourselves. The language is designed to make us feel empowered. But the underlying reality is different. An asset is something that can be bought, sold, and written off. An asset has value only insofar as it produces returns.

To be an asset is to be a sponge. It is to be useful, and therefore to be disposable. The moment you are no longer useful, you are squeezed dry.

What Cultural Studies Teaches Us

Cultural Studies, as Prof. Barad's worksheet suggests, is the discipline that makes this invisible machinery visible. It asks: who benefits from this arrangement? Who is silenced? Whose stories are told, and whose are forgotten?

When I read Hamlet through the lens of Cultural Studies, I do not see a tragic prince. I see a power structure that uses people as instruments. When I read Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, I do not see a comedy about two bumbling courtiers. I see a tragedy about what it feels like to be used.

This is what Cultural Studies does. It de-familiarizes the familiar. It makes us see what we have been trained not to notice.

Conclusion: The Sponge and the Pawn

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are not heroes. They are not villains. They are the "little people"—the ones who make the system work, and who are discarded when they are no longer needed.

Shakespeare gives them no inner life. Stoppard gives them one, and then takes it away. Both are doing cultural studies in their own way. Both are showing us how power operates, and what it costs.

The question for us—as students of literature, as workers, as people—is whether we will recognize the sponge when we see it. And whether we will recognize ourselves.

Creative Engagement: Comparative Analysis

Shakespeare's Hamlet and Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead are separated by nearly four centuries, but they are united by a common concern: the fate of the "little people" in systems of power. Where Shakespeare shows us the machinery of power from the outside, Stoppard shows us what it feels like from the inside.

Claudius's Plot (1600s)

• 1. Identification: Hamlet is perceived as a threat to the crown.
• 2. Utilization: R & G are summoned to extract information.
• 3. Liquidation: R & G carry their own death warrants to England.

Corporate Downsizing (2020s)

• 1. Identification: A division is deemed unprofitable by executives.
• 2. Utilization: Workers are pushed to finish quarters/projects.
• 3. Liquidation: System access is revoked; workers are terminated via email.

Diagram: The structural mechanics of instrumentalizing human lives across centuries.

The difference between the two plays is the difference between structural critique and existential critique. Shakespeare shows us how power operates. Stoppard shows us what it feels like to be caught in it. Both are necessary. Both are forms of cultural studies.

What unites them is a shared insight: power is not just something that is held by the powerful. It is something that is exercised through the marginalization of the powerless. The king needs the sponge. The system needs the pawn. Without Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Claudius could not spy on Hamlet. Without the "little people," the "big decisions" could not be made.

This is the lesson that contemporary workers know all too well. We are Rosencrantz. We are Guildenstern. We are the ones who are hired, used, and discarded. And like them, we are often the last to know what is happening to us.

Works Cited

Althusser, Louis. "Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses." Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays, translated by Ben Brewster, Monthly Review Press, 1971, pp. 127–86.

Foucault, Michel. Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972–1977. Edited by Colin Gordon, Pantheon, 1980.

Gramsci, Antonio. "The Intellectuals." Selections from the Prison Notebooks of Antonio Gramsci, edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell-Smith, International Publishers, 1971, pp. 5–23.

Greenblatt, Stephen. Renaissance Self-Fashioning: From More to Shakespeare. U of Chicago P, 1980.

Guerin, Wilfred L., et al. "Cultural Studies in Practice: Two Characters in Hamlet: Marginalization with a Vengeance." A Handbook of Critical Approaches to Literature, 5th ed., Indian ed., Oxford UP, 2007, pp. 305–11.

Said, Edward W. Culture and Imperialism. Vintage, 1993.

Shakespeare, William. Hamlet. Project Gutenberg, 1999, www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1524.

Stoppard, Tom. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Grove Press, 1967.

Storey, John. Cultural Theory and Popular Culture: An Introduction. Routledge, 2018.

Williams, Raymond. "Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory." New Left Review, vol. 1, no. 82, 1973, pp. 3–16.

The Danger of a Single Story, Feminism, and Truth: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Three Talks as a Cultural Studies Framework

Postcolonial Discourse & Cultural Studies

Prof. Dilip Barad has assigned this task on connecting the views and insights of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Three Talks with Cultural Studies and Postcolonialism.

Introduction: Who Is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie?

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie is one of the most influential writers and public intellectuals of our time. Born in Enugu, Nigeria, in 1977, she grew up in the university town of Nsukka in southeastern Nigeria, in an Igbo family. Her father was a professor of statistics and her mother was the first female registrar of the University of Nigeria. She moved to the United States at nineteen to study, and has since earned degrees from Eastern Connecticut State University, Johns Hopkins University, and Yale University.

Adichie is the celebrated author of three novels—Purple Hibiscus (2003), Half of a Yellow Sun (2006), and Americanah (2013)—as well as a collection of short stories, The Thing Around Your Neck (2009), and a book of essays, We Should All Be Feminists (2014). Her work has been translated into more than fifty-five languages, and she has received numerous awards, including the Commonwealth Writers' Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

But this blog is not about her novels. It is about three talks she gave over a period of nine years, each of which has become a touchstone in postcolonial studies and cultural studies classrooms around the world. The first, "The Danger of a Single Story," was delivered at TED Global in 2009. The second, "We Should All Be Feminists," was delivered at TEDxEuston in 2012. The third was her commencement address at Harvard University in 2018.

Together, these three talks form a coherent intellectual arc. They move sequentially from the politics of narrative to the politics of gender to the politics of truth. Each builds on the last. And each offers students of cultural studies a critical set of tools for analyzing how power operates through stories, through everyday practices, and through the language we use to describe reality.

This blog explores all three talks in detail, drawing out their key ideas, their real-world examples, and their connections to postcolonial and cultural studies. It also explains why Adichie's name and her talks should appear in any student assignment dealing with similar themes.

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Part One: "The Danger of a Single Story" (2009)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering "The Danger of a Single Story" at TEDGlobal 2009.

The Story of a Seven-Year-Old Writer

Adichie begins her first talk with a deceptively gentle anecdote. When she was seven years old, she started writing stories. But her stories were not about Nigeria. They were about white children with blue eyes who played in the snow, ate apples, and talked about the weather. Adichie had never seen snow. She lived in Nigeria, where mangoes were in season and the weather was not a topic of conversation because there was nothing to say about it.

Why did she write these stories? Because she had only read books by British and American authors. She had internalized the assumption that "books, by their nature, had to have foreigners in them and had to be about things with which I could not personally identify."

This changed when she discovered pioneering African writers like Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye. Suddenly she realized that "people like me, girls with skin the color of chocolate, whose kinky hair could not form ponytails, could also exist in literature." She began to write about things she recognized.

This personal story functions as a profound allegory for colonial cultural dominance. When a child learns to write stories that have nothing to do with her own life, and believes that this is what stories must be, then colonization has reached into the deepest layer of her imagination. The empire has already won. Adichie names this phenomenon: the single story.

Fide's Family: The Single Story of Poverty

Adichie then offers a second example. When she was eight, her family employed a houseboy named Fide. Her mother would tell her that Fide's family was very poor. So when Adichie visited Fide's village, she was shocked to see a beautiful patterned basket made by Fide's brother. She had only known one thing about Fide's family: that they were poor. She had never imagined they could make anything beautiful.

That, Adichie says, is what a single story does. It reduces a person, a family, a community, a nation to a single dimension. It makes poverty the only truth about Fide's family.

Mexico: The Single Story of the Immigrant

Adichie then turns this lens on herself. She admits that she too has been guilty of creating single stories. She recounts a trip to Guadalajara, Mexico, where she saw people going about their daily lives—buying food, laughing, smoking, arguing. She felt overwhelmed with shame because she had absorbed the American media's single story of Mexico. In her mind, Mexicans were "abject immigrants." She had never considered them as people with lives as complex and ordinary as her own.

This admission is crucial. Adichie does not position herself as morally superior. She shows that everyone is vulnerable to the single story. The question is not whether we have absorbed stereotypes—we almost certainly have—but whether we are willing to recognize and challenge them.

Nkali: The Igbo Word for Power

The most important turn in the talk comes when Adichie introduces an Igbo word: nkali, which translates to "to be greater than another." She argues that stories are fundamentally defined by this principle. How stories are told, who tells them, when they are told, and how many stories are told—all of this depends strictly on power.

She quotes the Palestinian poet Mourid Barghouti:

“If you want to dispossess a people, the simplest way to do it is to tell their story and to start with 'secondly.'”

Begin with the Native American's arrow, not with the arrival of the British. Begin with the failure of an African state, not with the creation of that state by colonial powers. You get a completely different story.

This is the heart of the talk. The single story is not just a cognitive error. It is a tool of power and the mechanism through which domination is maintained. Power is the ability not just to tell the story of another person but to make that story the definitive story of that person.

Stereotypes: Incomplete, Not Untrue

Adichie offers a precise formula:

“The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”

This is a subtle but essential point. It would be easy to say that stereotypes are lies. But Adichie argues that they are worse than lies; they are partial truths presented as complete truths. The single story of Africa as a continent of catastrophe is not entirely false—there is poverty, conflict, and corruption. But it is only one story. There are also stories of innovation, art, joy, and ordinary life. The single story makes those other stories invisible.

The Consequences of the Single Story

Adichie argues that the single story has real, destructive consequences. It "robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar."

She gives an example: a professor once told her that her novel Americanah was not "authentically African." The professor had a single story of Africa as a place of misery, and Adichie's novel—which was funny, which had middle-class characters, which dealt with love and ambition—did not fit that story.

This is how the single story works. It disciplines those who deviate from it. It asserts: you are not really African, you are not really a woman, you are not really poor, because you do not match the preconceived story I hold of you.

The Alternative: Many Stories

Adichie does not end with despair. She concludes with a call for many stories. "Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories have been used to dispossess and to malign, but stories can also be used to empower and to humanize."

She also warns against the "single story of the single story"—the trap of thinking that there is only one way to tell any story, including the story of resistance. She ends with a balanced statement:

“When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

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Part Two: "We Should All Be Feminists" (2012)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering "We Should All Be Feminists" at TEDxEuston 2012.

"You Are a Feminist"—and It Was Not a Compliment

Adichie's second talk, delivered at TEDxEuston, begins with a story of an insult. She was fourteen years old, arguing with her friend Okoloma. He looked at her and said, "You know, you're a feminist." Adichie recalls: "It was not a compliment. I could tell from his tone—the same tone with which you would say, 'You're a supporter of terrorism.'"

Years later, a Nigerian journalist advised her not to call herself a feminist because feminists are "women who are unhappy because they cannot find husbands." So Adichie decided to playfully call herself "a happy feminist."

This opening establishes a parallel with the first talk. The word "feminist" is itself trapped in a single story. It has been reduced to a caricature: the angry woman, the man-hater, the woman who wants to be like a man. Adichie's task is to break that single story open.

Redefining Feminism

Adichie offers her own inclusive definition:

“A feminist is a man or a woman who says, yes, there's a problem with gender as it is today and we must fix it, we must do better. All of us, women and men, must do better.”

This definition is significant because it moves feminism from being "about women" to being "about gender." It is not a movement for women against men. It is a movement against the way gender roles constrain both women and men. This is a foundational cultural studies move: the problem is not biology, but social construction.

The Socialization of Shame

The most powerful section of the talk is Adichie's analysis of how girls are taught shame. She lists compelling examples:

• We teach girls that they cannot be sexual beings "in the way that boys are." If a boy has a girlfriend, his parents do not worry. If a girl has a boyfriend, "God forbid."
• We police girls constantly: "We praise girls for virginity but we don't praise boys for virginity." Adichie adds with dry humor: "I've always wondered how this is supposed to work, because the loss of virginity is usually a process that involves two people."
• After a gang rape at a Nigerian university, many young people responded: "Yes, rape is wrong. But what is a girl doing in a room with four boys?" Adichie responds: "These Nigerians have been raised to think of women as inherently guilty. And they have been raised to expect so little of men that the idea of men as savage beings without any control is somehow acceptable."
• "We teach girls shame. 'Close your legs. Cover yourself.' We make them feel as though by being born female, they are already guilty of something."

Adichie's conclusion is sharp and illuminating: "The problem is that gender prescribes how we should be rather than recognizing how we are."

Two Families, Two Models

Adichie offers two family anecdotes to illustrate an alternative. In one family, when the son is hungry, the parents tell the daughter: "Go and cook some instant noodles for your brother." The girl does not like cooking, but she is a girl, so she must. In another family, the wife and husband have the same education and the same job, but the wife does most of the housework—and when the husband changes a diaper, the wife thanks him.

Adichie asks: "What if we raised boys and girls to cook? What if we raised children to focus on ability rather than gender, on interest rather than gender?"

This is not just a call for equality. It is a call to recognize that what we call "natural" is often just "familiar." The gendered division of labor is not natural. It is constructed, repeated, and naturalized over time. Cultural studies exists precisely to denaturalize it.

From TEDx to Beyoncé

The talk went viral. In 2013, Beyoncé sampled Adichie's words in her track "***Flawless." Adichie's voice appeared on a global pop track that reached millions of listeners, many of whom had never heard the term "feminist" used in this empowering way before.

This moment is itself a fascinating case study in cultural studies: How does a radical idea travel through popular culture? What happens to it when it is absorbed into a mainstream pop song? Does it lose its edge, or does it reach people who would never otherwise encounter it? Adichie's words reached a mass audience, but they also became part of a commercial product—illustrating the double-edged sword of cultural transmission.

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Part Three: Harvard Commencement Address (2018)

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie delivering the Harvard University Class Day Address in 2018.

"The Most Important Thing: Do Not Lie"

Adichie's third talk, the Harvard University Class Day address, is different in tone from the first two. It is more personal, more reflective, and more explicitly political. She tells the graduates that if she had to give her speech a title, it would be:

“The most important thing to do is to not lie. Or, to not lie often. Which is really to say: tell the truth.”

She explains why she intentionally uses the word "lie" rather than softer terms like "misinformation" or "falsehood": because "lie" has a bodily weight—it is an uncompromising word that carries moral force.

A Nigerian Perspective on American Truth

Adichie then makes a move that is central to her postcolonial positioning. She says she grew up in Nigeria under military dictatorship and fledgling democracy, and she always thought of America as the land of truth. "When yet another absurd political event happened, we would say: 'This can never happen in America.'"

But now, she says, American political discourse contains questions that seem imported from the "absurd country." Questions like: "Should we call a lie a lie? When is a lie a lie?"

This represents a sharp reversal of the colonial gaze. The former colony looks at the former empire and finds it lacking. The "developed" world is not the model of truth; it is actively losing its grip on truth. This is postcolonial critique in its most elegant form.

The Chimichanga Story: Intent and Context

Adichie then tells a story that seems light but carries deep meaning. At an event in London, the person introducing her mispronounced her name as "Chimichanga"—a Mexican fried burrito. The introducer had clearly practiced the name but made a "very human mistake" out of anxiety.

Someone in the audience was furious, stating, "That woman should have tried harder." But Adichie disagreed, observing that "she had tried very hard." Her foundational point was clear:

“Intent matters. Context matters.”

This serves as an indispensable lesson for the "call-out culture" that dominates contemporary discourse. It is important to call out injustice and to be angry. But it is equally vital to remember context and intent. Not every mistake is an act of malice; not every mispronunciation is an intentional act of colonialism.

This does not mean abandoning accountability. It means practicing nuance and refusing the single story of every individual as either pure victim or pure oppressor.

The Courage to Admit Ignorance

Adichie also speaks about the intellectual courage to admit what we do not know. She states:

“Have the courage to say 'I don't know'... ignorance acknowledged is an opportunity; ignorance denied is a closed door.”

This connects directly back to the first talk. The single story is often sustained by the refusal to admit ignorance. If I believe I already know everything about Africa, or about women, or about poverty, then I will never ask questions or learn. The single story is a closed door.

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Connections Between the Three Talks

These three talks are not separate. They form a single argument in three movements.

From Narrative Power to Gender Power to Truth Power

The first talk is about narrative power: who tells your story, and how that story defines you. The second talk is about gender power: how everyday practices teach us to be men and women, and how those practices naturalize inequality. The third talk is about truth power: what it means to insist on truth in a political world that has given up on it.

All three are fundamentally about power. All three are about how power becomes invisible by appearing natural. The single story appears to be common sense. Gender roles appear to be biology. Lies appear to be "alternative facts." Cultural studies exists to make these invisible power structures visible again.

Personal Experience as Theory

Adichie never begins with abstract theory. She begins with lived experience. A seven-year-old writing about snow. A friend's tone of voice when he called her a feminist. A mispronounced name at a London event. These are small, concrete, human moments.

From these moments, she builds theory. This is a deliberate methodology. It embodies what feminists call "the personal is political," and what postcolonial theorists identify as "writing back" to the empire. Instead of using European theory to explain African experience, Adichie begins with African experience and lets theory grow organically from it. This method is itself an active form of resistance that refuses the single story of what academic theory should look like.

The Refusal of the Single Story of Resistance

Adichie is careful not to create a single story of resistance. In the first talk, she warns against "the single story of the single story." In the second talk, she insists that men can be feminists too. In the third talk, she refuses to treat the mispronunciation of her name as pure victimization.

This distinction is crucial. It would be easy to make Adichie into a saint of anti-colonial resistance, and to make her opponents into pure villains. She refuses that easy binary. She insists on complexity, ambiguity, and the possibility of good intentions alongside bad outcomes. This represents the mature position of cultural studies: power is not a simple binary of oppressor and oppressed, but a field of forces in which we are all implicated.

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Why Adichie Matters for Postcolonial and Cultural Studies

If you are writing a test, an exam, a presentation, or an assignment on related topics, you should use Adichie's name and refer to her talks. Here is why:

A Vocabulary for Analyzing Power

Adichie gives us an actionable vocabulary. "Single story" is a term that can be applied to any situation where one narrative dominates and suppresses others. Nkali is a term for the power that makes this possible. This vocabulary is portable: it can be applied to analyze media representation, colonial history, gender relations, and political discourse.

A Model for Intersectional Analysis

Adichie does not separate gender from race or nationality. She demonstrates how they intersect. The single story of Africa is also a gendered story. The problem with the word "feminist" is also a problem with postcolonial identity. Her work demonstrates the importance of intersectional analysis, which is a core principle of contemporary cultural studies.

A Reminder That Theory Is Not Enough

Adichie's talks are not merely theoretical; they are calls to action. She asks her audience to tell more stories, to raise children differently, and to insist on truth. Cultural studies can sometimes become detached from the world it studies. Adichie reminds us that the point is not just to interpret the world, but to change it.

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Conclusion: "Whenever You Wake Up, That Is Your Morning"

Adichie ends her Harvard speech with an Igbo proverb: "Mgbe onye tete bu ututu ya." It translates to: "However early you wake up, that is your morning."

The proverb is about time and possibility. It does not matter when you begin; what matters is that you begin.

For students of cultural studies, this is the essential challenge. It does not matter that we have absorbed single stories, or that we have internalized gender norms, or that we have lied to ourselves about the truth. What matters is that we can begin now—to tell more stories, to question more assumptions, and to insist on a more complex and honest account of the world.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's three talks are not just speeches; they are invitations. They invite us to think differently about stories, about gender, and about truth. They invite us to become "happy feminists"—people who see the problem with gender as it is and who believe we can all do better.

And they invite us, most importantly, to refuse the single story. Because when we reject the single story, and recognize that there is never only one story about any place or any person, we regain a kind of paradise.

Works Cited

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "The Danger of a Single Story." TED, July 2009. YouTube, uploaded by TED, www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9Ihs241zeg.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "We Should All Be Feminists." TEDxEuston, Dec. 2012. YouTube, uploaded by TEDx Talks, www.youtube.com/watch?v=hg3umXU_qWc.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. "Harvard University Class Day Address." Harvard University, 23 May 2018. YouTube, uploaded by Harvard University, www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrAAEMFAG9E.

Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. We Should All Be Feminists. Anchor Books, 2015.