TV shows have seen a significant rise in diversity during the last decade by straying further and further from tokenizing and stereotypical representations of minorities and towards more fleshed out and respectful portrayals. Some of the most notable examples of this change can be found in children’s animated shows: the list of diverse cartoons is long and impressive, ranging across multiple channels and streaming services, from Cartoon Network’s Steven Universe and Craig of the Creek, to Netflix’s The Dragon Prince, She-Ra and the Princesses of Power and Twelve Forever.
At first representation was mostly subtextual or in the background, and sometimes it had to be clarified or confirmed outside of the show itself. For example, Avatar: the Legend of Korra did subtly write a love story between two women, Korra and Asami, but due to restrictions from Nickelodeon, only went on to confirm and explore it in a series of comics after the show ended. Around the time that this show was coming to an end, Steven Universe was beginning, and it brought forward a bolder step in representation. Penned by nonbinary writer Rebecca Sugar (she/they) and boasting a cast made up of mostly people of colour, it introduced some of the first openly queer characters in kids media; it wasn’t easy for these stories to find their way to the screen, and Sugar certainly fought hard to obtain less than they might have wished for, but whether Steven Universe was allowed to live up to its full potential or not, it undeniably paved the way for other shows to do so. Without the small, yet monumental steps that shows like The Legend of Korra and Steven Universe took, we wouldn’t have the wide array of diverse cartoons that we do now.
Two of the most notable examples currently on the air are The Owl House, created by Dana Terrace (she/her), and Dead End: Paranormal Park, created by Hamish Steele (he/they).
Airing on Disney, The Owl House tells the story of Luz (Sarah-Nicole Robles, she/her), a teenage Dominican-American girl who finds herself transported to the Demon Realm, a world where witches, demons, and magic exist. Under the guidance of Eda the Owl Lady (Wendie Malick, she/her), Luz discovers an unconventional way to learn magic and joins other like-minded witches in the fight against the tyrannical Emperor Belos (Matthew Rhys, he/him), who wants to police and control the use of magic.
Dead End: Paranormal Park, based on Steele’s series of graphic novels by the title of DeadEndia, is instead part of the Netflix catalog. It tells the story of Barney (Zach Barack, he/him), a teenage Jewish trans boy who gets a job at Phoenix Parks, a Dollywood-esque amusement park where he stumbles upon an elevator to the thirteen Planes of Existence and begins to learn about, and sometimes fight, angels, demons, and all sorts of supernatural creatures.
Both shows follow a human teenager who finds themself transported into a world of magic and otherworldly forces, but where fantastical or supernatural settings have been used in past shows to ease in subtler representation, the diversity of these shows is firmly planted in reality and presented with pride. There have been nonbinary characters in children’s animated shows before, such as Stevonnie in Steven Universe and Double Trouble in She-Ra and the Princesses of Power, who, while certainly very important, did benefit from the “loophole” of being somehow supernatural — the first a fusion of two people, the second a shapeshifting creature — which might have allowed their trans-ness to be dismissed as something otherworldly or unreal by those of the audience who might want to do so. In The Owl House, however, the nonbinary character Raine Whispers (Avi Roque, they/them) is just as human as all the other witches, whether they be male, female, cis or trans, and Masha (Grey Griffin, she/her) is just as human as any other human. Their pronouns are they/them for no roundabout reason and their identity is just as set in stone and real as any other character’s — there is no way around it.
Both The Owl House and Dead End boast an extensively diverse cast. As mentioned, both main characters are queer, and both pursue a queer romantic interest in the course of the show. In The Owl House, Luz crushes on and subsequently starts to date Amity (Mae Whitman, she/her), a lesbian; in Dead End, Barney has a relationship with Logs (Kenny Tran, he/him), his Vietnamese-American gay coworker. Of course, both characters have an array of friends and allies: Luz’s mentor, Eda, is also canonically bisexual and has a complicated romantic relationship with the aforementioned Raine; her best friends are Gus (Issac Ryan Brown, he/him), who is Black, and Willow (Tati Gabrielle, she/her), who has two dads, one Black and one Asian. Both have also shown signs of being queer, though they haven’t been openly confirmed as any specific identity yet. On his side, Barney has, as well as the demon Courtney (Emily Osment, she/her) and his talking dog Pugsley (Alex Brightman, he/him), Norma Khan (Kody Kavitha, she/her), an autistic and bisexual American-Pakistani girl, and Iranian-American and Muslim, Badyah (Kathreen Khavari, she/her), who has been hinted to be embarking on a journey of self-discovery and coming out.
With a strong foundation of an interesting and captivating diverse cast, The Owl House and Dead End tackle themes of trauma, loss, depression, and grief in some of the most tactful and skillful ways.
In the second season of The Owl House, the episode “Reaching Out” shows Luz’s grief over her father who has passed away some years before the start of the show: in it, the usually bubbly and upbeat girl is uncharacteristically distracted and mindless, and as a result, ruins the day of her girlfriend, Amity. Towards the end of the episode, she reveals to her and the audience that it is the anniversary of her father’s death, a day she usually spends with her mother who she can’t be with, as she currently has no way to get into the Human Realm. Not only does this episode show us a wonderfully accurate representation of grief and how hard it can be to cope with, even after a long time, but it also shows ways to help those who are going through it, through Amity’s sweet and caring support. Other particularly impactful episodes of The Owl House are “Hollow Mind” and “Labyrinth Runners.” In the first, we follow Luz and Hunter (Zeno Robinson, he/him), one of Emperor Belos’ highest ranking guards and his supposed nephew, as they are transported into the Emperor’s mind, where they discover many of the lies he has told to gain power and uncover far darker truths; among these is the fact that Hunter is really a clone created by Belos and conditioned to be of use in his reign. When the two are finally freed, Hunter runs away in a panic and we see him again in “Labyrinth Runners,” where he teams up with Gus and the two help each other overcome their fears and anxieties, even using a breathing exercise to dispel panic attacks.
Dead End skillfully addresses anxiety, trauma, and identity too: in “Trust Me,” Barney and his friends get trapped in a manifestation of their worst fear by a demon, which for Barney is a family dinner with his transphobic grandmother and for Norma is the real world itself, due to her social anxiety. Throughout both seasons, Barney has to confront his parents who, while they may have accepted him when he came out as trans, weren’t completely supportive and allowed his grandmother to treat him horribly; he also navigates a relationship with Logs, pursues a wrestling career in the demon realm, where he feels comfortable working out without being at risk as a trans man, and makes off-handed comments about wearing a binder and other everyday experiences of trans life. On her end, Norma learns that, as an autistic person with social anxiety, she doesn’t have to be alone, but she can have friends who understand her and respect her boundaries. She also deals with rejection from her crush, Badyah, in “The Ride of a Lifetime” and subsequently comes out as bisexual to her mother in “All Dolled Up,” after a talk with Logs in which they address the specific experience of existing in the intersection of queer and Asian.
Shows for children are normally set in a world that has a carefully curated balance of real, relatable elements that will allow the viewers to see themselves in the characters on their screen and be able to step into their shoes, with fantastical elements that peak their interest and let their imaginations roam freely. The choice to make queer characters, characters of color, and neurodivergent characters acknowledge their identities in real-world terms while immersed in a fantastical reality makes the far-from-indifferent point of placing these traits in the sphere of real, down-to-earth, and relatable elements, and therefore opens them up as options for children to relate to and discover. The children who watch these shows will not only learn that diverse identities exist, but also recognize them as normal and see them as a possibility for themselves or the people around them to be. If a child is shown healthy and well-rounded examples of queer, trans, BIPOC, and neurodivergent people, they will grow up without seeing any of these identities as other or less than.
As well as being fundamental in the upbringing and education of kids, diversity in animation can be comforting and cathartic for LGBT, BIPOC, and neurodivergent adults who, in their own childhood, never got the chance to see themselves represented on screen. It’s always poignant to see someone who looks, thinks, or feels like us in a show, movie, or book that we love, and seeing them in something like children’s animation can feel particularly uplifting, because even if we do see these characters struggle, we’ll always walk away with a sense of hope. It can be healing for our inner child, who longed, but never got to recognize themselves in the shows they grew up with. Now, we can let this part of us finally feel fulfilled and seen, and we can even be relieved and hopeful, knowing that the children of today are growing up with the help of increasingly open, accepting, and diverse worlds.
