Stories We Can’t Afford to Ignore

Pride, Power, and the Warnings of Dystopian Fiction

It’s Pride Month, and I finally started watching The Handmaid’s Tale.

I first read Margaret Atwood’s novel in 1988 during my freshman year of college. Like all adaptations, the show diverges from the original text in various ways. It captures the essence of Atwood’s story: a harrowing exploration of how fanaticism and authoritarianism twist the fabric of society. Both versions of The Handmaid’s Tale are deeply disturbing journeys through the darkest corners of human behavior: vilification, dehumanization, subjugation, and abuse. It evokes anger, fear, disgust, and an urgent desire to resist.

It is, of course, a work of fiction. But the pillars of society depicted in both the novel and the series are drawn from history, and from beliefs that are still held by some today. That’s why dystopian stories linger in our imaginations. They aren’t fantasy; they’re warnings.

As a woman and a lesbian, this show is layered with moments that hit hard. Watching the institutionalized rape of women. Seeing people executed for their sexuality, labeled “gender traitors.” It’s not just disturbing—it’s personal. But perhaps the most painful part is witnessing women complicit in each other’s oppression, and the ever-present fear that defines life under total control.

Maybe it’s the creator in me, but when I watch something like this, I reflect on the purpose of storytelling. What we take from a story—fictional or factual—depends so much on what we bring to it. Our identities, our beliefs, and our personal histories shape how we engage with art.

As a writer, I’m often struck by how readers interpret my work. They’ll share what a character or plotline meant to them, sometimes in ways I never imagined while writing. That’s the magic of stories. We experience them differently, and that difference can be illuminating.

Storytelling matters. It helps us find ourselves in art. But more than that, it allows us to step into lives and experiences vastly different from our own. It lets us walk through landscapes, eras, and events we might never otherwise encounter. The best stories don’t just connect us to ideas—they connect us to each other.

I worry, though, that we’ve crossed a cultural threshold. Increasingly, people are avoiding stories that don’t align with their beliefs or identities. The parts of society that challenge us to think beyond our experiences are shrinking. Books like The Handmaid’s Tale are once again being challenged and banned. Freedom of expression is under attack. And when we start erasing stories, we edge closer to living in the dystopias we once only imagined.

What have I taken away from watching The Handmaid’s Tale?

A few truths stand out:

• Righteousness can become dangerous.
  Some people believe their cause is divinely or morally superior. That belief gives them license, in their minds, to shift from guidance to domination, from concern to cruelty. We’ve seen it before. It never ends well. Idealistic barbarism always collapses—but often not before it destroys.

• Fear often trumps hope.
  Fear makes people compliant. When powerful forces begin planting the seeds of oppression, many turn a blind eye, whispering, “It’s not my problem.” By the time it is, their ability to fight back has diminished.

• The vulnerable are always the first targets.
  Oppressors strike where it’s easiest. They vilify those already marginalized, portraying them as threats to rally a disillusioned majority. But dystopias always require new enemies. Eventually, even the early supporters become victims.

These familiar lessons of dystopian fiction serve as cautionary tales illuminated by flashing red lights. But there’s another, often overlooked truth:

Misery permeates dystopia.

No one thrives in a society ruled by fear. Not even those in power. Everyone is looking over their shoulders. Relationships fray. Economies suffer. Joy vanishes. Even the so-called victors of oppression live diminished lives. The only culture that survives is one of strict conformity. Spoils, after all, are what remains after decay.

Resistance to oppression begins with those willing to stand and speak.

The seeds of decay are often subtle at first. They don’t affect everyone, so they are often ignored.

Until they can’t be.

Eventually, resistance comes. It always does. But the longer it takes, the more brutal and damaging the fight to reclaim humanity becomes.

You don’t need to look back to the Roman Empire or Nazi Germany.
Look to South Africa. Ukraine. Tunisia. Syria.

Recovery is possible, but it’s a slow process. It’s fraught with economic instability, civil unrest, political uncertainty, and deep mistrust. The road back to a vibrant, inclusive, and prosperous society is a long one. The greatest obstacle is always trust—trust within and trust from the world outside.

It’s Pride Month.

There was a time when I couldn’t legally marry the woman I love.

I know what it means to live on the margins—to choose between the safety of silence and the risk of rejection simply for living openly. I understand the struggle of a woman fighting for equal pay, equal opportunity, and equal respect. I was just a baby when women gained the right to abortion—and I’ve lived to see that right stripped away.
I remember a time when I couldn’t find stories about women who loved women. Now, I’ve made my living writing those stories for over a decade, only to see them threatened once again.

And that is what concerns me about America today.

We are witnessing the vilification of immigrants, the dehumanization of LGBTQ people, the erosion of higher education, the targeting of political opponents, and the steady dismantling of civil rights. Our leaders are eroding trust in the institutions that support democracy, cultivating cynicism toward any organization, idea, or individual that challenges their agenda. The seeds of dystopia have already sprouted. Too many of us are still watering them instead of pulling them up by the roots.

We are writing the prologue to a new dystopian tale.
The ending hasn’t been written yet.

The question is: will we find the courage to change it?