On Charachs, Queerness, and Subculture in Werewolf: the Apocalypse
I was born in the heart of Steinbeck country, caught between two generations—Gen X and Millennial—and rejected by both. My coming of age as a queer person in a small farm town during the late 90s was a period of loneliness and personal horror. I had no Queer elders, because almost all of them were dead, or grieving the dead. I lived a life feeling a nameless longing and sickness in my heart that had no name at the time. I only knew I was Queer because that's the label others used for me. At the time, it was a name that meant danger for the person with the label, because, for whatever reason, that person doesn't fit. Other labels were used for me of course, among them, "fairy" and "faggot" were the most common, usually accompanied by some other hellish delight the day had for me.
You see, a person with that label, is a person who lived in deep fear. And so, it became the name people used to call anything they considered "bad." This is, in many ways, why claiming titles formerly used for harm is important. I'm Queer, and that's something nobody can take away from me. I'm proud that I don't fit. I experience things in a season that others won't experience in their lifetimes. I've loved many, and felt loved, when I felt like the world was its darkest and bleakest, and at times, those were the only things that helped me get through. But in the 90s, I was on my own. It would be almost a decade until I find my people, or even a name for my orientation, the things that made me different, or even that I myself were capable of changing. I felt a longing that itself felt like a wild animal inside me that I could only barely control - but I did it, for my own safety. I don't blame anyone else that did it to survive either. I didn't start transitioning until I was well into my 30s and had already lost everything else. I was shocked I'd even lived to my 30s, because I never knew a queer person who did.
Back then though, I found my sense of self in Werewolf: the Apocalypse, and it resonated with me on a visceral level that still affects who I am today. It gave a sudden name and a face to the things I felt so isolated about. The game didn't just see me, the writers did too, and at the time, that was everything. At the core, Werewolf is about queerness—living in a body that like it doesn't belong to you, facing unprecedented changes, psychological and literal, and grappling with identity. This is the essence of my life and the lives of many others, reflected in the World of Darkness. There are many that consider the pllight of the Garou to be childish or pointless, much like what I experienced in a society that told me I didn't belong. Its easy to write horror when you see and interact with monsters every day of your life.
The struggles queer people face are mirrored in Garou. You have your first change, and your entire world is torn apart. Family and friends vanish, replaced by a complex culture war fought on multiple fronts, united in purpose but divided in methodology and conviction. United they could overcome anything in the world, but their differences presence intense cultural intersections that have to be navigated as a matter of roleplay. Yet it’s more than just a battle against those who wish for our annihilation—it’s against an apathetic public that considers the very idea of saving the earth to be childish, our supposed allies that say they care but only when it gets them the ends they desire, and internal conflict.
The term “charach,” with its negative connotations in the World of Darkness universe, can be seen as parallel to the queer experience. Just as the Garou labeled as charachs face discrimination, ostracism, and ridicule for their attraction to their own kind, so do queer individuals in the real world when they step out of the essentialist heteronormative paradigm. The fear, shame, and sense of alienation that a garou might feel upon realizing their attraction towards another garou mirrors the experience of many queer individuals, especially those coming to terms with their identity or those who are struggling to find a label that accurately represents who they are. When you experience trauma after trauma together, the only ones you trust enough to be vulnerable with are the ones you've bled with, literally and emotionally.
In the World of Darkness universe, the term “charach” refers to a Garou who violates the Litany - the set of laws that the Garou follow - by mating with another Garou, regardless of their sexual orientation or ability to procreate. The offspring of such unions, known as “crinos,” are characterized by sterility and supernatural afflictions, which reflects upon the parents’ transgression. Nevertheless, there are layers to this depiction that parallel the struggles of real-world marginalized communities. The charach taboo isn’t solely about childbearing; it applies to all relationships between Garou, even those that don’t result in offspring, thus encapsulating homosexual, bisexual, and queer couples within its scope - and beyond. This taboo essentially echoes homophobic sentiments in the real world, which, at their core, are about enforcing the colonial notion of bioessential gender roles as a sign of social civility. Moreover, the crinos - children of these taboo unions - are often physically deformed, a feature that unfortunately paves the way for players to caricature real-world disabilities. The narrative almost codifies the abuse of these characters, presenting a problematic portrayal of disability. This aspect can resonate with the experiences of those in the queer community who also identify as disabled, further deepening the parallel between the charach experience and the queer experience.
Of course, in the original game, these offspring weren’t referred to as crinos-born but had appropriated the name of an actual existing tribe. I won’t elaborate on why that is bad. Its bad.
The World of Darkness game sessions in the 1990s, where I sought refuge, were dominated by older, mostly cisgender, heterosexual white Gen X players, the Vampire players in particular who sought to make me feel as unwelcome as they could manage in their spaces. This started as the Storyteller's friends killing my character the moment play started, and as more players joined the game, evolved into a hazing ritual that got so extreme is culminated in players attempting murder and made the news. I soon realized that if I wanted a safe space at the tabletop, I had to create it myself. What I think is the most disappointing of all is that I still feel that way about the latest editions, who seem to have made it a marketing gimmick to build their platform on encouraging their fans to attack older fans, including myself and other queer fans of the game who committed no sin other than merely loving the game. If I want a truly safe and inclusive game, its still on me to provide that. The fact alone that the tradition of treating queer players as tokens at best and targets to attack at worst, well, dress it how you like, but its just a continuation of the same harmful environment that sees the regular ejection of queer players from its midst. Whatever that is, it doesn't look, smell, or act like progress.
The World of Darkness I cultivated does not echo the caricatures of the game portrayed by the older players, and perhaps it was naive of me to expect them to fix their hearts. My World of Darkness provides an authentic reflection of my experiences, my struggles, my own fears and horrors, and the wider queer community’s realities. It offers an immersive narrative that resonates deeply with those who identify with it. To reorient “charach” away from its problematic roots without erasing its core identity could be a potent representation of the queer experience. In this context, the identity of a charach, much like queer identity, is a source of strength.
The world is still scary, and only getting scarier. When the gaping void howls for our blood, stand up, and be the one to howl back in challenge. We can't depend on the majority in the room to be on our side, because they never were to begin with. We have eachother, and that's everything.
