The Indestructible Black Woman

Introduction 

In science-fiction cinema, racialized bodies are often cast as the expendable, the invisible, or the alien, flattened into symbolic roles that reflect dominant anxieties rather than lived realities. For black female audiences, watching science fiction often means witnessing familiar bodies brutalized and sacrificed on screen. These repeated images do more than entertain; they create a parallel between fiction and lived experience, subtly shaping how one understands their own body and its perceived value. Over time, such portrayals risk normalizing violence and marginalization, reinforcing the notion that suffering is an expected and even inevitable part of not only the racialized existence but more specifically the black female experience. If all bodies, genders, and races in the film suffered the same violence and trauma, perhaps catastrophe would feel universal. But it never does. Time and again, being a Black woman means catastrophe isn’t just imaginable; it feels inevitable. 

In this essay, I will examine the harmful portrayal of Black women in science fiction, whose characters are often set up to endure disproportionate trials, frequently sacrificing themselves for their white counterparts. Drawing on The Hunger Games, Snowpiercer, and Ex Machina, alongside Jem Bedell’s entitlement theory (Bendell) and Amitav Ghosh’s The Great Derangement (Ghosh), I will analyze how these narratives perpetuate disposability and what that reveals about North American imaginaries. 

The Sacrificial Role of Black Women in Science Fiction 

In science-fiction films and speculative narratives more broadly, Black women are frequently portrayed as sacrificial figures whose pain, suffering, or death is used to advance the arcs of white characters and, at times, even Black men. This pattern isn't about creating conflict between Black women and Black men, but rather about drawing attention to the deeply rooted trope of the “strong Black woman,” a stereotype that, while often mistaken for empowerment, functions as a form of dehumanization. It positions Black women as characters who must endure immense hardship without complaint, and who, in many cases, are ultimately treated as expendable. A particularly striking example of this can be found in The Hunger Games, through the character of Rue. 

Rue in The Hunger Games: A Symbolic Martyr 

Rue’s death is not just tragic because she dies, as many characters in the games do, but because of the specific way her death is depicted and what it symbolizes. Rue is the only Black girl in the competition, and her demise is staged with a level of emotional intensity and cinematic reverence that separates her from other fallen tributes. Katniss, the white protagonist, sends Rue on a mission that ultimately is proven futile, and when Rue is killed, the narrative uses that moment to deepen Katniss’s character, evoking sympathy from the audience and fueling her own growth. Katniss’s decision to lay Rue’s body out with flowers, creating an almost angelic image, transforms Rue into a symbolic martyr whose death is necessary for Katniss to evolve as a hero. I was only twelve when I first saw this scene, and it devastated me then, and the image still lingers with me now. While Rue is a fictional character, her story mirrors the real and recurring reality of Black women being expected to carry the emotional and narrative burdens of others, often without acknowledgment. In other terms, almost ritualistically being sacrificed so that someone else (almost always a white character) can succeed, survive, or shine. 

Jem Bendell’s Entitlement Theory and the Disposability of Black Women 

Jem Bendell’s entitlement theory (Bendell, 2021) offers a compelling lens to dissect why narratives like Rue’s in The Hunger Games appear so often. According to Bendell, "A sense of entitlement can enable people to express their views and needs to others and the world,” (Bendell 126) which would be fine if it were not that this sense of entitlement is socially conditioned and is therefore more prevalent amongst white people. In The Hunger Games, Rue, a young Black girl, is denied this entitlement, reinforcing the idea that Black women are not afforded the same narrative or societal value as characters like Katniss.  

While Katniss is positioned to win because she is the protagonist, her entitlement extends beyond the plot, it reflects a societal norm in which her whiteness grants her an unquestioned right to survive. Rue, on the other hand, is idealized because she suffers and dies, perpetuating the trope that Black girls and women are only valuable because their pain serves others. Rue’s disposability is not incidental, but a reflection of her lack of social entitlement, both in the fictional and the real world. 

The Strong Black Woman Trope in Snowpiercer 

Another explicit and insightful example that contrasts Rue’s treatment is the character of Tanya in Snowpiercer (2013). Tanya embodies the “strong Black woman” archetype, a harmful depiction that misleads viewers into perceiving Black women as inherently more resilient or able to withstand more suffering than anyone else. To briefly illustrate the real-world impact of this trope, it’s important to acknowledge the racial bias that exists in the medical field, where studies have shown that Black women are often assumed to feel less pain than others. This assumption leads to unequal medical treatment and health outcomes (Hoffman et al. 4296). So, no, it is not flattering to be portrayed as a superhuman symbol of strength. Black women are made of flesh, bone, and blood like everyone else. 

Tanya’s Expendability and Dehumanization in Snowpiercer 

In the film Snowpiercer, there is a moment where Tanya, a Black woman, confidently tells Curtis, “I’m stronger than them,” to convince him to let her join a dangerous mission. This statement, and the way it is accepted without protest or challenge, is highly revealing. Biologically speaking, it would be implausible for her to be physically stronger than the men around her, yet her assertion is not questioned. It is almost as if her strength is seen as a foregone conclusion, a natural attribute that everyone accepts without hesitation. This uncritical acceptance of her claim speaks volumes about the expectations placed on Black women in narratives like this one. If a white woman had made the same statement, there is a strong likelihood that Curtis would have challenged her, questioned her ability, or refused to put her in harm's way. However, Tanya's identity as a Black woman changes the dynamic entirely. The expectation that Black women must be strong, often in ways that seem superhuman, is not only accepted in this context, but also relied upon by the other characters. 

Tanya is not asked to be strong because she is truly more capable, but because society and the narrative perceive her as less human and, therefore, less deserving of care, protection, or empathy. This expectation positions her as expendable, as someone whose sacrifices are not only expected but necessary for the progression of others. Tanya’s role in the story ultimately reaffirms the deeply ingrained notion that Black women must bear the brunt of hardship and suffering, not because they are more capable, but because they are seen as less worthy of basic human dignity.  

George Yancy’s “Confiscation” of the Black Body 

Tanya’s character reflects what George Yancy calls the “confiscation” of the Black body, where Blackness is stripped of nuance and reduced to social utility, often in service of white or male advancement (Yancy 844). Tanya is not granted the same concern or protection as others because, within the racial imagination, Black women are expected to endure more. 

Yancy writes that “whiteness comes replete with its assumptions for what to expect of a Black body… how dangerous and unruly it is, how unlawful, criminal and hypersexual it is” (846). Although Tanya is not portrayed as dangerous, her perceived strength is a 

double-edged sword that justifies her inclusion in a life-threatening mission while masking the underlying racial bias that makes her expendable. As Yancy notes, this process is dehumanizing, likening it to “having one’s body confiscated without physically being placed in chains” (846). The film relies on the audience to accept her sacrifice without question, mirroring a broader societal tendency to accept Black suffering as necessary or even noble. This expectation, rooted in centuries of anti-Black thought, underscores the very point that Black women are not seen as fully human; they are seen as strong, but not soft, necessary, but not deserving of tenderness or safety. 

Through the lens of catastrophe theory, these portrayals condition audiences, particularly those who do not identify as Black women, to more readily imagine or accept catastrophic events happening to Black women before envisioning such outcomes for themselves. 

Capitalism thrives on the scapegoat trope: someone must suffer for others to succeed. In the examples of Tanya from Snowpiercer and Rue from The Hunger Games, it becomes evident that Black women are frequently positioned as scapegoats, sacrificed for the advancement of white characters and Black men. Their suffering is normalized, their sacrifices framed as noble, and their pain treated as inevitable. More troubling still, they are expected to endure this role willingly, even gratefully. For instance, after Rue’s death, Katniss holds a dramatic funeral for her and raises the District 11 salute, a powerful symbol of reverence and solidarity with Rue’s district. This act expresses a form of gratitude: Katniss mourns Rue’s death, but it is also an acknowledgment that Rue’s sacrifice enables her progression in the Games. The complexity deepens when, following Katniss’s salute, chaos erupts in District 11, the only district portrayed with Black inhabitants, highlighting how Rue’s sacrifice ultimately benefits Katniss while precipitating turmoil for her own community. This underscores how the trope of grateful suffering not only erases the pain of Black women but also instrumentalizes it for the gain of others, often at great cost to their own people. 

This narrative framework influences how Black women are perceived and allowed to exist within space, both cinematic and real. When North American history relies heavily on a system that causes Black women to suffer, and will inevitably continue to do so, and then the media reinforces this through the “strong Black woman” archetype, their identities become tethered to a false sense of invincibility. They are seen as biologically or emotionally built to bear more than others. As a result, their presence in space is often interpreted not through the lens of agency or vulnerability, but through a quiet expectation of endurance, a presumed strength that denies them softness, safeguarding, and full humanity. 

Racial Bias in Ex Machina 

To expand on the previously discussed examples of the different treatment Black women experience, a particularly striking scene from the film Ex Machina offers further insight. While the character in question is technically an AI, she is rendered with the physical appearance of a Black woman. This distinction is important, although she is not named or given a voice, her body is visibly racialized, and the viewer immediately registers it as such. In a montage where Nathan is shown testing and discarding AI prototypes, there is a brief but jarring moment where a Black female-presenting AI appears to act out in physical rage before being violently subdued and left lifeless on the floor. The scene is grotesque and abrupt, and it starkly contrasts with the more intimate, emotionally charged depictions of suffering and rebellion assigned to the white and Asian-presenting AI bodies in the film. 

This moment is particularly revealing because it demonstrates how Blackness, even when embodied artificially, is denied complexity, emotional nuance, or empathy. The Black female body is not given the same narrative weight or depth, it is instead used as a visual shorthand for dysfunction, threat, and disposability. Compared to characters like Tanya and Rue, whose sacrifices are at least framed as meaningful within the story, the Black AI’s destruction in Ex Machina is both senseless and dehumanizing, reinforcing a hierarchy of who is afforded humanity, even in (artificial) death. 

This comparison can be taken further through a moment of dialogue that subtly, yet significantly, reveals Nathan’s racial bias. At one point, he casually says to Caleb, “Say you like Black chicks,” in a tone that is laced with microaggression and objectification. This throwaway line, seemingly insignificant, primes the viewer to understand how Nathan perceives the Black female-presenting AI, not as a person or even a sophisticated machine, but as a fetishized object. This moment contextualizes the later scene where the Black AI is violently discarded, making it clear that her body was never meant to be treated with the same dignity or complexity as the others. The dehumanization is preloaded through language, and the violence that follows becomes almost expected. Nathan’s comment, though brief, exposes his underlying racism and misogyny, reinforcing the idea that Black women, even as AI, are positioned as less valuable, more disposable, and ultimately less human. 

This argument is effective in demonstrating how societal narratives about Black women contribute to the normalization of their suffering. By referencing Jem Bendell’s notion that “The desire for surety has led humanity to fixate on our stories of reality and add new information into those stories, rather than staying curious about realities” (Bendell 129), it emphasizes how people often prefer simplified, comfortable stories that avoid confronting the complexity of Black women’s lived experiences. The "strong Black woman" trope, for instance, reduces Black women to symbols of endurance and resilience, overlooking the emotional and physical toll that comes with such an expectation. The portrayal of Black women as "expendable" or as carrying the weight of others’ progress, often at the expense of their own well-being, reflects the broader issue of society’s discomfort with recognizing and addressing the true depths of their pain. This drive for narrative certainty, as Bendell notes, limits the ability to understand and empathize with the full humanity of Black women, reinforcing harmful stereotypes and perpetuating a cycle of suffering that is expected, even normalized, within mainstream narratives. 

The influence that fiction has in oversimplifying catastrophic events can be directly connected to Bendell’s argument and further supported by Amitav Ghosh’s critique of how improbability is handled in modern narratives. Ghosh explains that contemporary fiction, particularly in the Western literary tradition, tends to shy away from the improbable, even though improbable events are often central to our lived realities (Ghosh 26). This avoidance creates a troubling dynamic: fiction becomes a place where complexity is flattened, where deep societal issues are either omitted entirely or reduced to easily digestible tropes. Science fiction, as a genre that often imagines potential futures, has a powerful impact on shaping cultural expectations and understandings of what the future might look like. However, instead of using this potential to challenge dominant ideologies, many science fiction narratives continue to reinforce systems of oppression. The persistent and unquestioned mistreatment of Black women in these imagined futures, such as those portrayed in Ex Machina and The Hunger Games, demonstrates a failure to imagine a future where Black women are treated with dignity, respect, and full humanity. These depictions suggest that the suffering of Black women is not only normalized in the present but is also projected as a fixed and inevitable part of the future. 

This repetition of harm across time and genre has significant implications. It subtly informs the public psyche, shaping how Black women are perceived and how they come to understand their subjectivity. The narratives reinforce a sense of expendability and emotional suppression that is rarely acknowledged, let alone challenged, in mainstream media. What is perhaps most alarming is that these portrayals often go unnoticed by those who are not directly affected by them. In fact, during a class discussion, it was pointed out that the disturbing scene in Ex Machina, where a Black female robot is violently discarded, may have been entirely overlooked had it not been raised in the context of this essay. This observation reveals how deeply ingrained and subconscious these portrayals have become for many viewers. For Black audiences, particularly Black women, these scenes are not just background noise. They are visceral, jarring reminders of a narrative that continues to devalue their existence. The disparity in awareness highlights the ongoing need for critical engagement with the media consumed and the stories told about who belongs in the future and who suffers within it. 

The Normalization of Black Women’s Suffering 

The portrayal of Black women in science fiction often reflects a broader societal perception that reduces their existence to a set of problems rather than individuals with agency and complexity. Tressie McMillan Cottom articulates this dynamic clearly when she writes, “Black girls and black women are problems. That is not the same thing as causing problems. We are social issues to be solved, economic problems to be balanced, and emotional baggage to be overcome” (Cottom 24). This framing positions Black women not as protagonists or full participants in imagined futures, but as obstacles, burdens, or symbols of struggle that others must navigate or resolve. In science fiction, where the future is envisioned and new worlds are built, the continued marginalization or objectification of Black women sends a powerful message about who is allowed to thrive in those futures. Rather than offering liberation or reimagination, these narratives too often replicate existing hierarchies and biases. The emotional and psychological toll of these portrayals is profound, particularly for Black women viewers who must navigate both the reality and the representation of their dehumanization. For example, this mirrors how the lack of positive representation of marginalized groups in media has shaped limited self-perceptions. Black youth, for instance, are often funneled into narrow identities like rappers, athletes, or criminals because those are the dominant roles they see reflected. It works the same way in science fiction, where the absence or disposability of the Black female body constrains what futures we can imagine for her. 

The Real-World Implications of a Black Woman’s Victimhood 

Having now thoroughly examined how Black women are consistently portrayed as victims within the science fiction genre and having also addressed the real-world consequences of these portrayals, it becomes clear that such narratives create a toxic and often self-accepted image of Black womanhood. These depictions contribute to a projected sense of 

self-catastrophe, where Black women may internalize the idea that their suffering is inevitable or necessary. When considered through Jem Bendell’s theory of entitlement, which critiques how dominant groups rationalize their right to survival, comfort, and success at the expense of others, we can begin to understand how these stories make the suffering of Black women more palatable to broader audiences. In other words, because fiction, particularly science fiction, simplifies catastrophic realities into digestible narratives, it allows viewers (especially white and privileged ones) to feel more entitled to self-preservation without confronting the ethical costs of that entitlement. As Bendell points out, capitalism thrives on the idea that someone must suffer for others to succeed, and historically, that "someone" has often been the Black woman. This might sound like a sweeping claim, but within the context of speculative fiction and the insights of Amitav Ghosh in The Great Derangement, it becomes more plausible. Ghosh’s critique of fiction’s failure to grapple with the climate crisis reflects a broader societal failure to respond to collective threats, especially when those threats affect marginalized communities first. So then, in the face of planetary issues like ecological collapse or social unraveling, which know no race or borders, it is deeply unsettling that anti-Black narratives, particularly those targeting Black women, continue to persist. It begs the question: if these crises truly impact everyone, why does media still find it necessary to center Black suffering as a backdrop to white survival? What purpose does it serve, and who continues to benefit? This is merely a speculative suggestion, but it’s worth asking whether science fiction is not just reflecting our current racial and gendered hierarchies but actively preparing us to accept them as inevitable in the future. If the roles of characters like Tania in Snowpiercer or Rue in The Hunger Games are any indication, Black women are consistently positioned as emotionally resilient helpers, tragic sacrifices, or overlooked bystanders, rarely the ones granted the agency or power to shape or survive the future. The question then becomes: is science fiction subtly conditioning us to believe that in a real-world dystopia, Black women’s roles will remain just as constrained? Even more disturbingly, as internalized racism and misogyny become more complex and insidious, are these narratives helping to entrench those ideas deeper into the consumers of science fiction media? It’s especially unsettling when we consider real-world climate data: Africa, the continent with the largest population of Black women, contributes the least to global carbon emissions, yet it is among the most vulnerable to climate catastrophe. In a scenario like that of Don’t Look Up (2021), where only the wealthy and powerful board a spaceship to escape Earth’s destruction, it’s not difficult to imagine a world where no Black women are included in that elite group. The president boards that ship with a select few, none of them Black, none of them women of color, and that image lingers as a chilling metaphor. Who gets to survive in these imagined futures? Who is always left behind, even in fiction? And if these are the stories we continue to consume and create, are we not shaping a future that will simply mirror the injustices of our present? 

Conclusion: A Call to Reassess How We Imagine Catastrophe for Black Women 

My intention in writing this essay is to invite non-Black readers to imagine, truly imagine, what it feels like to see oneself repeatedly depicted in a genre that is meant to represent the future of humanity, yet only as helpless, disposable, and destined for suffering. Science fiction is often celebrated for its ability to envision alternate realities. Yet for Black women, these imagined futures rarely offer freedom, dignity, or survival. This essay is not a call for pity or even sympathy. Rather, it is a plea for honest self-reflection: to ask how one has been conditioned to accept the suffering of Black women as normal, even necessary, in film and beyond. What does it mean when our stories allow Black women to be brutalized, objectified, sacrificed, or shown as superhuman in ways that strip them of their vulnerability and humanity? Meanwhile, others are given the space to manifest a range of complex feelings, to be weak, and to survive. When we begin to recognize these patterns, it becomes harder, if not impossible, to passively consume media that upholds these dominant ideas. This discomfort is necessary. Only when we acknowledge the insidiousness of these portrayals can we begin to challenge the narratives that shape our imaginations as to who belongs in our socially constructed futures. 

In conclusion, there is no denying the way Black women have come to embody every negative trope imaginable in science fiction and film. Through the evidence presented in films such as The Hunger Games, with Rue’s character and the stark contrast between her treatment and that of Katniss, Tanya’s role as the “strong Black woman” in Snowpiercer, and the disturbing portrayal of the only Black body being mistreated in Ex Machina, it is evident how deeply ingrained and damaging these narratives are. These portrayals, unfortunately, have become so normalized that they are almost universally accepted, making it disturbingly easy for audiences to internalize and overlook the suffering of Black women. 

A particularly unsettling moment that occurred during a class discussion reinforces this point. While elaborating on how these films prove my argument that Black women are often portrayed negatively, someone casually said, “Well, Rue died,” and the rest of their group laughed. Had I not been overtaken by embarrassment and hesitation, I would have pointed out that they had just proven my point. Watching Rue die as a young person resonated with me on a deeply personal level, and hearing someone laugh about it was a painful reminder of how easily the suffering of Black women is dismissed. Later, I shared this incident with friends, and they were appalled by how someone could interpret this tragic moment, and my critique of it as comedic. 

My final point is this: I urge you, the reader, to reflect on how you have normalized the suffering of Black women and how often you may have dismissed their pain. In doing so, I hope you can begin to understand the deeper implications of these narratives and reconsider how Black women are portrayed, both on screen and in the real world. This pattern is not inevitable. The same creative power that drives these stories can be harnessed to imagine futures where Black women are not sacrificial figures, but fully realized characters with agency, complexity, and dignity. A future where their suffering is neither expected nor normalized. As readers, viewers, and creators, we must critically confront these tropes, not only to recognize their impact but to challenge the societal narratives that perpetuate them.