You’ve mentioned before the importance of having diversity in media, not only with regard to characters but also the content creators (actors, etc). The necessity of diverse actors is easily understood, as an actor’s ethnicity is clearly observed and makes a clear narrative difference. However, when it comes to voice actors or other content creators whose ethnicities are not clearly reflected in the material, the necessity is less obvious. What makes it important? Does ethnicity tangibly and predictably affect performance? Is it industry’s moral responsibility to enforce diversity in the staff? Or is it simply a creative boon to have a diverse staff?
So this is a really great series of questions, and one that I think an analysis of the character and casting of Vaatu might be instrumental in unpacking. You ask specifically about the significance of casting decisions, what affect these voice actors have on audiences’s understanding of race, and the moral obligation of creative teams to incorporate diversity in their productions. And with when-extremes-meet’s blessing, I’ll try my best to break those three parts down as best I can, using Judith Butler’s Frames of War and the documentary Mickey Mouse Monopoly as guides.
Before diving into this argument though, I want to first introduce Jonathan Adams. He is best known for his role as Henry Walker on American Dreams, but has also been a successful voice actor, whose filmography includes but is not limited to Osmosis Jones, Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths, and The Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. Total, he has 70 credits listed on his IMDb page, with several projects currently in development. One of those projects includes The Legend of Korra, but instead of playing the hero, he plays the villain, and not just any villain but Vaatu, the source of all evil in the Avatar universe.
Now, I’m all for diversity in voice casting. In fact, I have been extremely critical of The Legend of Korra for casting white people in the roles of Asian and indigenous characters, but something about positioning the voice of a black man as the root of all evil seemed more than a little problematic. Especially when one considers Adams is the only black voice actor cast in a reoccurring role for the entirety of both LOK and ATLA. That’s right. Black voices in the series are nearly completely absent from the Avatar universe save for a few lines by Serena Williams as the Fire Sage in Book 2.
Even the beloved Master Piandao, drawn with dark skin and based on the real life Sifu Kisu of Moroccan-descent, is voiced by Robert Hammond Patrick Jr. Even the one black human character in the whole universe is voiced by a white man. This is devastatingly problematic, and I’m afraid there’s really no way to unpack it without being incredibly critical of the casting issues throughout the Avatar franchise. However, I am determined to keep this focused on Vaatu, as a longer essay is already in the works on this topic.
So let’s talk about why Vaatu sounds evil. Let’s talk about how socially we have demonized black men in our culture, to the point that when a police officer says a black man was “running at me like a demon” we are not surprised that he uses lethal force to stop him. Let’s talk about how historically black voice actors have played more villains than heroes. Let’s talk about what exactly these problematic practices in voice casting means for us as a culture.
In Butler’s essay, “Torture and the Ethics of Photography” she states that a “recognizable human is formed and maintained over and against what cannot be named or regarded as the human.” What she’s talking is that the media constructs an “Other” against which we define ourselves as not being. In this essay, Butler is specifically focusing on the ways in which American media has constructed the “Arab identity” as specifically not American. So in order for one to identify as American, then they cannot be Arab, and in this way the media helped to dehumanize the Arab population and erase the actual existence of Arab Americans. Butler calls this type of framing an “act of violence,” meaning that it results in a loss, in this case the loss of being seen as human. And with dehumanization comes a lack of empathy.
So what does this have to do with voice acting in children’s media? Kids’ shows aren’t exactly being saturated with violent images of dead bodies, after all. But there is without a doubt a violence within the framing of our beloved cartoons. We frame the voices of black men and women as villains, and the few times there are people of color as heroes we have often cast white voice actors in those roles. This is a dangerous cycle of association and assimilation that cannot go unchecked, and we as fans should demand more. It’s not enough just to draw people of color, you have to also cast people of color in those roles. But children can’t tell the difference, right? They just see cartoon characters, they don’t associate the voices with any particular race. Wrong.
I offer the anecdote of Jacqueline Maloney of the Du Bois Institute at Harvard University from the incredibly powerful documentary Mickey Mouse Monopoly:
JACQUELINE MALONEY: I have a girlfriend who, she’s a white woman and her son is about three, and she came to me one day really disturbed and said that she had been coming back from shopping and that her son said, “Mommy, Mommy, the hyenas, the hyenas,” and she looked up and she said there was a group of black children on the carousel and playing. And she said but when you had your back turned to them, they did, they sounded just like, the sound, the voicing, the laughing of the hyenas. And she could not move her son away from the attachment of the sound to the image of hyenas in The Lion King. And she said, and further, he had made the association that they were bad. Then she started to shift in her assessment of what I was saying to her, but also what kinds of images she was allowing her son to see without having conversation.
The documentary Mickey Mouse Monopoly, “analyzes Disney’s cultural pedagogy, examines its corporate power, and explores its vast influence on our global culture,” and serves as a critique of the ways in which these cartoons have shaped problematic images of race and gender within young children. Sadly Maloney’s account is echoed through the documentary by other scholars talking about their own personal experience with these images and questions. One person even points out that Simba, the African hero of the Lion King, is voiced by a white man, despite having two black voice actors play his parents.
But white voice actors can’t help that they had the best voice for the part! What if no POC voice actors auditioned? All this harkens back to the privilege problem within the industry itself. As I’ve already outlined in a previous essay, many POC voice actors are not even able to gain access to the auditions because the casting call doesn’t specifically say their race. Even if something is not specified, their agent will not send them to the audition because the assumption is that they are looking for a white voice actor because that is the standard default for our culture. And as Steven Universe has demonstrated there is certainly no lack of talented POC voice actors (source for picture below).
I’ll end with the irony that The Legend of Korra was actually awarded for casting in 2013 at the Emmy’s. Now, don't get me wrong, Korra is fabulous for a lot of reasons and problematic for just as many, but this serious misjudgment on the part of casting has left a really sour taste in my mouth about the whole series. I will love Korra, I will cherish her journey, but I cannot let go of the fact that the children will learn to associate the strength of a queer, woman of color with a white woman’s voice. Because as talented and supportive as Janet Varney is (and trust me, I really admire her), I can’t let go of the potential that role could have been for a POC voice actress. Not just for her career but for our culture, and if that’s not a moral obligation on the part of creators then I’m not sure what is.
All I have to say is thank goodness for Garnet and Estelle. They are both gems as far as I’m concerned.
On Korra and Byrke's Spiritual and Creative Journeys, Respectively
Anonymous said:
All the discussion on representation and the "compassion" line is really interesting and useful. I think your points about the production environment are fascinating and agree that Bryke's failure to include marginalised voices in their production environment and fandom's dismissal of fans of colour explaining the way the violence done to Korra affected them are huge problems. It's also clear that this opinion is not monolithic (nor should we expect it to be).
The way Korra's life experiences mirror the experiences of qwoc re: violence. However, instead of erasing that narrative as is usual, Book 4 puts that front and centre. The fact that it IS such a painful narrative only highlights why people with experience should have been involved in telling it. But I do find *something* redemptive in their use of violence in Korra's story because it's used to tell a story not often told but one that SHOULD be. But do we see it as finally putting a qwoc's experience of violence from her own pov on screen, or of Bryke humbling a qwoc w/ violence.
(Though it also explains why Korra's contextualisation of her experience is so important. Personally one thing I felt was powerful that I don't see discussed much is the way Tenzin just radiates respect for Korra throughout that scene. Not paternalistic pride, but respect for her as a leader - as *his* leader - as someone who changed the world and plans to again. Which doesn't negate others' concerns about the "compassion" line at all.
But I do think the tone of the scene in which she says it is worth considering.) Anyway - without attempting to excuse Bryke's failure to include relevant voices in the first place, do you think in some ways this is another example of their later-series course correction and deliberate deconstruction of their own earlier work? [With apologies for the extended anon ask - I hate these character limits! And thanks again for all your thoughtful commentary - no obligation to answer this.]
First off, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts. As I broke down in an older essay, I think in many ways the last two seasons of Korra are Bryke’s attempts to correct a lot of the more problematic elements of their series as well as create more subversive arguments about their own political stances on certain topics. And while there is still a lot of things like the production culture, overt neoliberalist strategies, and the occasional stereotypical Asian accented reading of certain characters, which all drive me nuts, I think they finally get their messaging and characterizations on the same page in the last few minutes of the show.
Does that save it from all of its past mistakes? No. Does that mean I won’t ever recommend the series to other people? No. What it does mean, though, is that I think a critical treatment of the series from all of its intersections - production studies, fandom studies, animation studies, and media studies - is crucial in really unpacking the “essence” of the series, rather than its “representation.” I will stand by my stance that Bryke “stumbled” into their queer narrative. They created characters completely separate from their own experiences, and, in doing so, created a tension between themselves as creators and the characters. And why I think there are so many things that felt “off” during seasons one and two. You can tell the difference in seasons three and four, that they started listening to their characters rather than telling them what to do. It feels “organic” rather than “forced.” And that’s not saying any of this was conscious or intentional, there is very much a meta-physical force inside this series, and that’s to be expected when working with spiritual topics (read: making media is magical).
We know for a fact that Bryke never planned anything further than Korra’s spiritual journey, and in the process Bryke appears to have gone on a creative journey of their own over the course of the series. And part of it is because the struggles of Korra do so closely mirror the struggles of real life queer women of color. And as they got to know Korra, through writing and listening her, I think these connections became more and more evident.
That being said, they do a lot of damage getting to that point, and perhaps having someone with that personal experience in the room could have enlightened them earlier onto Korra (and Asami’s) struggles, showed them the opportunities for subversion and nuance, offered criticism on their more problematic elements. But they are in a position of privilege and sometimes it takes other people to point out how power operates in these dynamics. I think their decision to canonize Korrasami was, in part, the result of this awareness of privilege. They saw an opportunity for healing and forgiveness, and took it. “I’m just glad I could finally forgive him,” is one of Asami’s lines in the final scene, and I think Bryke is offering it as an apology to the queer fandom, who has been ridiculed by other fandom communities and even creators of other shows through things like queerbaiting, fan service, trolling, etc.
They recognized that they have been in a position to tell these stories for a while now and it was humbling for them to realize how long it took to incorporate those narratives into their own work. But if there is someone from a marginalized group in the creative room with them in the future… then maybe it won’t take them so long the next time.
I had the same thought about Wan. There seemed to be a lot of cliche undertones too (I think?). He's orphaned, poor, starts off as a thief but oh wait look he has a heart of gold and ofc he's destined to save the world now (as opposed to Korra saving herself?) Maybe there's a link between Wan closing the spirit world and later dying in some battle while Korra ends (begins?) her story by peacefully walking into the spirit portal. A sign that the new era is closer to finding balance.
For sure! I think those parallels and comparisons are super valid, and in line with a lot of my own thoughts. I mean, Wan is sort of representative of a classic hero’s origin story (Aladdin comes directly to mind). I’m working on my race essay currently, and I discuss how the Fire Nation sort of takes on a lot of the Western domestic and foreign policies throughout our own time. And I think Wan being a Firebender is sort of a nod to this. That yes, this is how these stories have been told, but we’re now in the process of revising those and setting new legends in place.
Korra is definitely a new archetype. One I hope we start to see more of in our own media. QWOC kicking ass on our screens is the kind of representation we all need.
Dear Bryke, You Are Not a Reflection Of Your Father
"When I was a little kid, I had very few shows to look to with brown girls like me and none with queer characters (and maybe that’s part of the reason why it took me so long to come out). Now, not only does this representation exist, but it has just been acknowledged as intentional, valid, and beautiful by its creators.
I can’t exactly articulate how Avatar the Last Airbender and Legend of Korra originally became such important shows in my life, but I can now tell you why it will remain one of the shows most dear to my heart. And for that Mike and Bryan, I want to thank you. "
-When-Extremes-Meet, [x]
Every Avatar fan remembers this first iconic image of Korra released in the summer of 2010. Announced as the “sequel series” to the beloved Avatar: The Last Airbender, The Legend of Korra promised not only a “strong, hot-headed heroine” but a new, modernized world in the form of Republic City. Three years later, after the series finale was released, many news outlets praised Korra, as one of the most historically significant animated series in American television, for their confirmation of a queer relationship between the title character Korra and her longtime female friend Asami Sato, known more affectionally within the fandom community as “Korrasami.” As one of the first academic writers following this series from its inception in 2012 (focused on queer fandom communities of all things), I should have been ecstatic, and yet, it has taken nearly two months for me to structure this more personally-driven essay about a show that infuriated me nearly as much as it inspired me with hope for the future of children’s media.
Originally, this essay focused solely on the fans and ignored the creators, who I have often criticized for their use of at-times-questionable culturally-appropriated material, casting practices of white voice actors for POC characters, and reductionist approach to complex political ideologies. I have often defended and highlighted the Korra fandom as the silver lining of a particularly problematic series, and whose community helped create a space of intersectionality, subversion, and exploration of queer identities. But as I sat down to gather my research, following the finale, reading and watching fan reaction after fan reaction, there was no way to ignore the overwhelming consensus of “Thank you, Bryke!” from the fans.
At first I was frustrated. The fans had made Korrasami canon. They had created a large enough demographic that the Viacom network executives felt safe putting this “progressive” ending out on the airwaves. But as another one of my colleagues pointed out, Bryke (the fandom-assigned name for the creators Bryan Konietzko and Michael DiMartino) are the ones who created the media that the fans consume, and thus I can’t completely remove them the equation. So with a huge breath, I dove into my obligatory re-watch of both series, keeping an open mind about the symbiotic relationship between the fans and the creators. And after a long revision of my original outline I’ve decided to focus this essay around the most important love triangle of the series - Bryke, Korra, and the Fans.
For this analysis, I will be framing the context of the entirety of the Avatar universe through the lens of father-child dynamics, as I think understanding Bryke’s relationship to the two fathers of animation - Disney and Miyazaki - is productive in examining their influences but also in marking their departure from their predecessors. In particular, I will be focusing on the various father-child relationships examined over the course of the series, culminating in the redemption and the death of one patriarch in particular, Hiroshi Sato. Hiroshi’s relationship with his daughter Asami is perhaps the most indicative of Bryke’s growth not only as storytellers but in their own awareness of the impact and subsequent implications of their work. The goal of this essay is to highlight a television series which not only fought against network standards but also against its own legacy, and produced not only one of the most diverse fandoms but a character whose intersectionality I can only hope will become an archetype of American storytelling.
My first venture into fandom studies emerged from researching and defining what I called the “American shoujo.” Back in 2012, I presented a paper called “The American Shoujo - A Cultural Fusion of the Fictionalized ‘West’ and ‘East,’” in which Korra was presented as the most current iteration. Bryke have spoken and written a number of times about the influence of Hayao Miyazaki on their own work, and most notably the infamous Tumblr post “Korrasami is canon,” Bryan takes two whole paragraphs to discuss the Japanese animator:
“. . . I came across this quote from Hayao Miyazaki: ‘I’ve become skeptical of the unwritten rule that just because a boy and girl appear in the same feature, a romance must ensue. Rather, I want to portray a slightly different relationship, one where the two mutually inspire each other to live - if I’m able to, then perhaps I’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.’ . . . However, I think there needs to be a counterpart to Miyazaki’s sentiment: Just because two characters of the same sex appear in the same story, it should not preclude the possibility of a romance between them.”
Interestingly, I know for some fans, the Avatar series was originally seen as a kind of “rip off” of Japanese anime. One part of the history of animation that many American fans do not realize is that the cultural exchange between Japanese and American animation has been going on since the very beginning. A young Osamu Tezuka, the future godfather of Japanese animation, used to watch Disney films with his father and Takarazuka theatre (Western musicals performed by an all-female Japanese theatre troupe) with his mother. The big eyes considered so indicative of Japanese-style animation is actually from Tezuka’s admiration for Bambi, and the incredible gender-defying stereotypes come from Japanese actresses portraying Western men in musicals.
Thus, as Japanese animation borrowed from America, so did American animation borrow from Japan. And while there has been a great deal of controversy surrounding this relationship in terms of always admitting credit when credit is due, there is no denying that the two industries have grown together, and both Avatar and Korra are only natural extensions of this rich history. And while Miyazaki’s shoujo characters often find themselves engulfed in a magical West, Bryke’s shoujo wandered in a mystical East. But unlike Miyazaki’s shoujo trapped in eternal youth, Bryke eventually allows theirs to grow into young adulthood. And in doing so, Bryke not only broke with the traditional shoujo conventions, but also broke away from the father of animation who first inspired their characters.
Susan Napier offers some insight into the tension of Miyazaki’s female characterizations in her chapter entitled “Princess Mononoke: Fantasy, the Feminine, and the Myth of Progress,” she deconstructs the myriad pluralities present in Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke. Much like Korra, San’s characterization is complex and empowering, but also contradictory and flawed. As Napier reiterates throughout her book, there is a “shoujo mask” utilized by Miyazaki to hide some of the more complicated issues he is trying to unravel in his narratives. And the fact that a young girl is positioned as the hope for a return to a purer Japan is certainly layered in terms of what she calls the “supernatural natural,” meaning these feminine spirits and energies are directly linked to their environment. In addition, San’s apparent asexuality is positioned as a barrier between her and any potential human love interest; she loves the earth, all other love is tangential.
Therefore, using San as a map for Korra can only extend so far because at her root San is Japanese and Korra, despite Bryke’s efforts to wrap her in a mythical, Eastern world, is undeniably American. For Bryke, like many young, idealistic American animators, Miyazaki represented a Disney-alternative paternal figure for them to follow as artists. Hayao Miyazaki not only inspired them to create the Avatar universe but also to fight a network for a female-lead animated action series.
However, over the course of Korra, it becomes evident that Bryke struggle to reconcile their differences with a culture they have tremendous respect for but grow more aware of its problems. Japan is not the beacon of a progressive future it is often painted. There are still overarching problems in Japanese society, not unlike America, with regards to race, gender, sexuality, and class that often go overlooked, especially from an American perspective, which has often through the lens of a post-WWII atomic bombing apologist. We focus on Japan’s technological innovations and creative contributions, and ignore some of their more problematic points of view - one of which is certainly LBGTQ issues.
And so I return to the Korrasami relationship, mentioned in the opening of this essay. This “ship” is more than a historically significant queer representation in children’s programming, but rather it is a statement on the part of Bryke that they have grown as creators, who are not only willing to write characters outside of their personal experience but also willing to listen to those characters. Korra is not only a departure from the monomythic structure of Avatar, but an intensive, internal character study in complete contrast to the external explorations of its predecessor. And whenever a creator travels into the depths of a character’s mind, especially one in complete opposition to their own experience as a white, cis-gendered, heterosexual male, they are inevitably going to get lost and need a guide, and who better than the character capable of building the roads herself?
While Korra is the title character, Asami is the unsung heroine of the series. Originally intended to be a treacherous Equalist, who manipulated Mako, in order to gain Korra’s trust, Asami’s initial characterization was riddled with problems and stereotypes. However, DiMartino discussed in the “Power of Fandom” panel how in the writer’s room, Asami’s character fought against these typical plot devices and demanded they take a different path (perhaps even offering to drive herself to Korra’s heart?) And in listening to their character during the first season, Bryke produced one of the greatest plot twists of the entire series, Asami chose the Avatar over her own Equalist father, based not on relationships but her own strong sense of justice - a characteristic shared by all of Miyazaki’s shoujo.
We have seen Korra on our screen before, in the form of live action heroines like Buffy and animated ones like Kim Possible. There are even a handful of action heroines of color, like Pam Grier and Lucy Liu. But we have never seen Asami Sato - a female character, whose creators (and entire fandom) nearly wrote off as a traitor and transformed from the female-lead’s initial romantic rival to her eventual romantic interest. This story doesn’t exist anywhere on television, much less on an animated series with a Y7 rating on Nickelodeon. And while Asami’s storylines rarely got the screen time it deserved, she is by far “the greatest thing [Bryke] ever created.”
Moving into the final stage of this essay, I want to take a step back and examine the overarching theme of legacy as it extends through both Avatar and Korra, and perhaps best summarized by Tenzin’s declaration in Darkness Falls, “I am not a reflection of my father.”
Ironically, this quote delivered in the Fog of Lost Souls is the clearest message for all of season two. Slammed with a slashed budget as well as riddled with pacing problems, inconsistent characterizations, and embarrassing animation mistakes, season two was certainly not the tied-up-neatly-with-a-bow delivery of the first season. But upon viewing this season in the context of the series as a whole, I think in someways its deconstructive, disjointed nature becomes its saving grace.
In addition to unraveling all the problems of the first season’s finale, such as Deus-ex-Aang giving Korra back her bending and the knight-in-shining-armor Mako saving the princess Avatar, season two juxtaposes the various ways in which parents and children grow apart - whether it be in rebellion, in retaliation, or in reflection. There was the obvious comparison between Unalaq’s relationship with Desna and Eska versus Tonraq’s relationship with Korra; but the true revelation of season two was in learning about Aang’s relationship with his own children.
In revealing Aang was not a perfect parent, Bryke is also acknowledging Avatar was not a perfect parent series. There were many problems in the original with regards to their handling of race and the creative liberties taken with many Eastern philosophies - something I think the casting of Steven Yeun as Wan, the first Avatar attempts to remedy. And while there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the classic hero’s journey, I think Bryke recognized that the original series was not quite as revolutionary as they initially planned. In addition, the expansion of the Avatar universe into comics further complicated the messaging of its narrative. Was Aang’s dream really to bring about democracy? How are Daoist philosophies compatible with capitalist ventures? Was this really Avatar’s legacy?
And if nothing else is clear from season two, it is the answer to latter question - no. Not only did Bryke ruin Aang’s image of innocence, they obliterated him.
In a radical move, Korra’s connection to the Avatar Spirit was severed, sending the fandom into an outrage. How dare they take Aang away from us!? Surely, the connection would be reestablished? Surely, Korra will take the advice of Wan and close the spirit portals and restore “balance.” And then. . . None of that happened. The legacy of the Avatar was broken, its very origins erased, and Korra was left to bring about a “new age” and create a legacy of her own. But would she ever have the chance?
With the fandom in shambles and the ratings for the series at their all time low, followed by an illegally leaked release of season three, the future of Korra looked grim. Was this to be Bryke’s legacy? Several relationships throughout both Avatar and Korra dealt with this question of legacy: Zuko/Azula and Ozai, Noatak/Tarrlok and Yakone, Tenzin and Aang, Lin/Suyin and Toph, Asami and Hiroshi, but the most significant is perhaps that of Bryke and Miyazaki/Disney. Korra’s similarities to San from Princess Mononoke is no less insignificant than Asami’s parallels with Nausicaä from Nausicaä of Valley of the Wind. And in the end, once Korra and Asami break from their shoujo shackles, Bryke was free to explore new ground with their characters - including their relationship to one another.
The final two seasons of Korra not only mark a pivotal shift in the focus on relationships from the men to the women in Korra’s life but also in Bryke finally finding their footing not as writers but as listeners. Season three introduces Suyin Bei Fong, the first significant matriarchal figure in the Avatar universe and a remedy to the “absent mother” syndrome that plagued both series. Korra and Asami spend over half of the season one-on-one and literally “set sail” on a sand-sailer, signaling the beginning of a relationship in fandom lingo. In addition, Jinora once again invokes the role of shoujo-in-shining-aura to save Korra from certain death in the finale, earning her tattoos as the first female airbending master in nearly 200 year and proving herself a spiritual leader superior to her own father.
Breaking further away from Miyazaki, the final season starts after a three year time jump, taking Korra from age 18 - the final year of the shoujo - to age 21, a christening year of young adulthood for Americans (as opposed to the age of 20 in Japan). Bryke seems to reconcile with the silver lining of Disney, whose characterizations of women has historically been destructive to young girls. A force against which Bryke worked actively against as evidenced through the introduction of their first shoujo Katara, nearly 10 years ago.
In “Korra Alone,” considered by critics to be the most powerful episode of both series, Korra cuts her hair, in direct reference to a fellow American animated female fighter, Mulan. In a similar fashion, Korra transforms herself, but out of a personal duty to herself rather than a filial duty to others. Korra’s journey is one for autonomy, to escape the nightmares of her previous self.
Ultimately Bryke do not require a huge reconciliation with Disney, because their actual paternal figure is first and foremost Hayao Miyazaki. As Bryan mentions in a convention panel, all character redesigns have to go through an approval process, so they had an opportunity to remodel by reintroducing the aged, prisoner-version of Hiroshi Sato. The radical redesign is supposed to catch the attention of the fans, who Bryke knows will undoubtedly recognize an animated version of the Japanese “Walt Disney.”
Hiroshi and, by extension, Miyazaki still represent a world of systematic oppression and exclusion, which cannot exist in the world Korra and Asami have built, together. Hiroshi and Asami’s relationship over the course of the series in many ways parallels the one between Zuko and Ozai, which was the backbone of the original Avatar series. However, instead of ending in destruction, the Satos’ relationship ends in reconciliation. And in another marked difference between parent and child series, where Ozai was spared with no redemption, Hiroshi still dies despite his redemption. And this is perhaps Bryke's most definitive message on their views about the Patriarchy, it must be smashed, a stark contrast to the ambiguous messaging of Avatar. So while Hiroshi’s death is representative of Bryke’s departure from Miyazaki and the destruction of the Patriarchy; its main affect is on Asami and serves not only as the motivation for the final scene but as the backbone for the whole series.
In retrospect, Asami is integral to Korra’s growth, creating a space not only for Korra to share her own fears but also for Korra to learn how to ease the burden of others’ fears. This is culmination of Korra’s spiritual journey - not learning airbending, not becoming a giant spirit Kaiju, not bringing back the Air Nation, and not even creating a Spirital Portal, - but rather learning to listen, a lesson Bryke learned on their journey as well. Much like Asami is patient with Korra learning to drive, all those years ago, Asami has also been patient in waiting for Korra to return home. And I think the two scenes below are most indicative of Korra’s growth after her departure-to-return.
The big theme of both scenes is vulnerability. In the first scene, Korra finally admits she is afraid for the first time in life to her mentor Tenzin, leaning on him for support. The second scene takes place four years later, and we see Korra as an emotional support for Asami who opens up about her own fears for the first time. However, this is not a “softening” of Korra’s character, she is just as fierce as ever, but her aggressive nature does not mean she is incapable of peace, as Judith Butler’s assesses with regards to the human condition in Frames of War:
“. . . I think it is precisely because we’re constituted with aggression, it’s precisely because we are capable of waging war, and of striking back, and of doing massive injury, that peace becomes a necessity. Peace is a certain resistance to the terrible satisfactions of war. It’s a commitment to living with a certain kind of vulnerability to others and susceptibility to being wounded that actually gives our individual lives meaning.”
It is the shared vulnerability over their legacies, through which Korra and Asami find support in one another. For Korra her journey is to gain autonomy of her Avatar Spirit, while Asami must gain autonomy from her father. Over the course of the series Korra loses every aspect of her identity - her bending, her connection with her past lives, her body, and her mind; but Asami has also experienced loss, in a way Korra cannot understand, the loss of a family. Therefore, it makes complete sense that for the final season, the Sato father-daughter relationship is put back into the spotlight, showing us not just how much Korra and Asami have grown in the years since the first season but Bryke as well.
And for a series with a plethora of loose ends, it is significant for Bryke to chose Hiroshi as the final thread to tug tight at the end of series, as he is the final physical and meta-physical barrier existing between Korra and Asami. How fitting that Hiroshi was the first person to introduce Korra to Asami, and his ghost was the last step in bringing them together.
“I don’t think I could have handled losing you and my father in the same day,” Asami confesses in the final scene, a coded admittance of love and loss. However, as Judith Butler notes in Precarious Life, love is not possible without loss nor vice versa:
“It is not as if an “I” exists independently over here and then simply loses a “you” over there, especially if the attachment to “you” is part of what composes who “I” am. If I lose you, under these conditions, then I not only mourn the loss, but I become inscrutable to myself. Who “am” I, without you? When we lose some of these ties by which we are constituted, we do not know who we are or what to do. On one level, I think I have lost “you” only to discover that “I” have gone missing as well.”
Korra recognizes that not only was she was missed, but that her absence hurt Asami. “I don’t think I ever really apologized. . . For being gone all that time, for not coming back sooner,” Korra says with a humbleness that speaks volumes about her growth as a character. And so we come back full circle, to the first episode in which all Korra wants is to discover her “own path as the Avatar,” to find her place in the world. And she has finally found it, not in the violence of an epic final battle, like Aang, but in the peace of her own Spirit Portal, rising above the ruins of a previous Avatar’s legacy.
And while Korra could have walked off into the Spirit Portal alone at the end of the series, and the fandom would have rejoiced, that would not have been closure for Bryke, and as they have admitted time and time again, they write the show, first and foremost, for themselves. And much like Hiroshi’s death was the final push Korra and Asami needed to admit their feelings for one another, Bryke’s departure from Miyazaki was the final push they needed to “make Korrasami happen,” as summed up by Seychelle Gabriel (the voice of Asami) in JV Club podcast.
And just as Korra and Asami walking off hand-in-hand into the Spirit Portal signifies the beginning of a relationship rather the accumulation of a classic love-at-first-sight storyline, the finale of The Legend of Korra is not an ending but a beginning. In the show's final moments, Bryke finally forged their own path in animated television, and while being a fan the last ten years have been “one big, bumpy ride,” to say the least, I think Asami summarizes my thoughts best when she says, “I’m just so happy you’re here, now.”
And so in closing I wish to address Bryke, directly. I want you to know you are not a reflection of the fathers of animation. Avatar is not your legacy, it is only your beginning. And despite all the problems you created and encountered, I wanted to assure you that the final scene saved the life of at least one queer youth, and probably many more, simply because they saw themselves in your characters. I know because that’s what an animated heroine did for me many years ago. To borrow some wise words from your first shoujo, “It's time for you, and your generation to take over the responsibility of keeping peace, and balance in the world.” And I imagine after all of your struggles over the course of creating these series, you finally learned that balance is not static. . .
