Across the internet, disabled people are reclaiming popular characters as their own. TikTok trends with captions like, “Characters that are autistic because I (an autistic person) say so,” or, “This character is for the chronically ill and disabled,” take characters that are not explicitly disabled and make them explicitly disabled.
Some characters and stories lend themselves better to this, specifically, characters that are ‘coded’ as disabled. This ‘disability-coding’ is similar to ‘queer-coding,’ where a character has traits that imply queerness without this queerness ever being explicitly stated. (Significantly, a character who explicitly states that they are gay is no longer ‘coded’ – they are simply queer). Historically, characters were queer-coded as the inclusion of homosexual characters in the media was forbidden. Similarly, the history of disability has been one that has been based in hiding and invisibility. According to mainstream media, disability shouldn’t be seen, particularly on screen. In the 2020-21 TV season, only 3.5% of recurring characters in primetime US TV series had disabilities. When this number is taken in comparison to the number of disabled people in society (in the US, for example, 26% of adults are disabled), it seems clear why we cling to the coded character. Whether this coding is intentional or not, it becomes a significant part of representation.
Fanfiction has been viewed as a way to ‘reclaim’ the coded character by creating explicit queer and disabled representation, bypassing the normal gatekeepers of popular culture in an act of resistance and ‘deviance.’ Here, I turn to Harry Potter, not because it is an astounding work of representation, or even of fiction, but rather because of the extent to which its fans have reclaimed their queer and crip-coded characters.
The first time I read the words postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome in a work of fiction, it was on the fanfiction site, AO3. I knew of the condition from my own medical appointments but, here, the long string of words described a symptom of lycanthropy. Remus Lupin, an iconically queer- and crip-coded werewolf, has been diagnosed with many illnesses by his fans. Sometimes these diagnoses are a replacement for his canon lycanthropy; sometimes they are a consequence of it. On the surface, the number of potential diseases or disabilities could be misconstrued as sadism. The werewolf has been diagnosed with lupus, cystic fibrosis, HIV, fibromyalgia, arthritis, multiple sclerosis, and more. However, this crip-coding creates a fantastic range of representation. It is difficult to imagine popular media with such a number of experiences represented.
J.K. Rowling herself once suggested Remus’s lycanthropy was included as a “metaphor for those illnesses that carry a stigma, like HIV and AIDS.” This has been taken up by fans in different ways. One interpretation – as seen in the article “Why Remus Lupin is a hero for those suffering with chronic illnesses,” implies this representation does its job. The character of Remus Lupin does allow the books to explore illness, and the shame and judgement that often accompanies it, in a way that many of those with chronic illnesses can relate to and do not often get to see. In a world in which popular media is so lacking in disability representation, even lacklustre representation can go far.
However, I wouldn’t go so far as to call Remus Lupin a hero for the disabled, particularly not as he is written in the original series. Instead, if we take werewolf as a symbol for chronic illness or disability, the representation turns ugly. He is, canonically, disgusted by himself and his condition. He is not permitted, or at least shown to, experience joy. And, significantly, even if Remus is a hero – he is the only werewolf who is. Nearly all of the other werewolves are on the ‘bad’ side of the books’ magical war. Fenrir Greyback, for example, is a predator who savagely and purposefully spreads his monstrous ‘disease.’ Even without highlighting the explicit homophobia in JK Rowling’s HIV metaphor, it is clear that these werewolves are only acceptable as long as they clearly fight their illness. The werewolves are only acceptable when they are good. It is okay to like your meat a little rare; it is not okay to give in to the monster, or disability, within.
Yet, as the queer community reclaims the werewolf as queer (Remus Lupin has not only been written as explicitly gay but also as trans, polyamorous, asexual, and more), can the werewolf be reclaimed as cripple? (I use the word cripple here, rather than disabled, purposefully and politically, as Nancy Mairs does in her essay ‘On Being a Cripple’.)
A werewolf does not become crippled only through the identification of a non-magical illness or disability. To really unpack the crippled werewolf it seems necessary to stay in the magical world. Within the various rewritings found on AO3, the disability of the werewolf itself has been taken materially. Through accompanying pain, fatigue, dislocations, and broken bones, fanfiction authors explore the ways in which werewolfism becomes a disability that even magic cannot cure. Remus Lupin has a limp, a cane, or a wheelchair. He is political – writing about the experience of being werewolf, building community among other werewolves and magical creatures, moving across intersectional lines to protest discrimination against not only muggle-borns and half-bloods but also werewolves, women, people of colour, and the queer community. Often, he is not overwhelmingly good but, instead, overwhelmingly grey. These fanfictions reimagine the cripple as a werewolf who rejects rather than assimilates to ‘polite’ society. This werewolf accepts its definition of monster. Even so, community and care abounds.
Clearly, fanfiction isn’t perfect. Ableism is also rife in the fan-built world, and criticism ranges from the erasure of Remus’ disability to the romanticisation of disability and pain in fan treatment of his lycanthropy. However, for some, fanfiction still provides the only representation that really hits. TikTok posts exploring Remus Lupin’s character are accompanied by approving comments, some suggesting that his crip-coded character is “the closest thing to good disabled rep I’ll ever get.” Perhaps, then, it is less important for fanfiction to be perfect, and far more important for it to reflect the reader (and the writer). Indeed, providing this range of representation may be one of the most political things we can do.
