We Are Defending Fiction While Erasing History

I wasn’t planning to see The Odyssey, but lately I cannot escape it—and I am not talking about publicity.

I am talking about the outrage, and in some cases outright hate, spreading across social media over Lupita Nyong’o reportedly being cast as Helen of Troy: a woman so beautiful she caused a war, but also a mythological figure who was literally hatched from an egg.

Mythology requires us to suspend reality and immerse ourselves in the story. And there is no denying that Lupita Nyong’o is one of the most beautiful women in the world.

Still, I am not surprised by the outrage. In fact, I expected it.

Why?

Because every few months, America seems to find a new reason to argue over who is “allowed” to play a fictional character.

Before Lupita Nyong’o, it was Halle Bailey as Ariel in The Little Mermaid. Cynthia Erivo was attacked long before audiences ever saw Wicked. Yara Shahidi’s casting as Tinker Bell became a cultural flashpoint. Francesca Amewudah-Rivers’ Juliet, Candice Patton’s Iris West, and Amandla Stenberg’s lead role in The Acolyte all became targets of remarkably similar campaigns.

The outrage over a Black actress playing Juliet is especially revealing. I have seen blond, blue-eyed white actresses with unmistakably Midwestern or Southern accents portray Juliet without anyone questioning whether they could authentically embody a teenage girl from Renaissance Verona. Audiences understood that they were watching actresses interpret a fictional character.

After all, it is acting.

Yet when a Black actress is cast, race suddenly becomes the one characteristic some critics insist cannot be reimagined. That is not simply a concern about fidelity to Shakespeare. It reflects a double standard about which actresses are permitted to embody characters whose experiences—first love, family conflict, youthful passion, and heartbreak—have always been treated as universal.

The script never changes.

Critics argue that race-conscious casting ignores historical accuracy, violates the source material, or represents “forced diversity.” Supporters argue that mythology, fantasy, theater, comic-book adaptations, and science fiction have always evolved through reinterpretation and that talent—not race—should determine who is permitted to tell a story.

Reasonable people can disagree about artistic choices.

That isn’t what fascinates me.

What fascinates me is what these debates reveal about our priorities.

Helen of Troy is a mythical figure.

Ariel is a mermaid.

Tinker Bell is a fairy.

Elphaba is a green-skinned witch.

Juliet never existed.

The Jedi are fictional.

Yet these characters generate weeks—sometimes months—of outrage. Comment sections explode. YouTube channels produce endless commentary. Politicians weigh in. Think pieces multiply. Social media algorithms amplify every disagreement until it becomes another front in America’s never-ending culture war.

Meanwhile, something far more consequential is happening with remarkably less public attention.

Across the country, there are continuing battles over how Black American history is taught, preserved, interpreted, and remembered. School boards debate curriculum. Museums defend exhibits. Libraries become political battlegrounds. Historic sites face pressure over how they tell the nation’s story. Educators find themselves navigating shifting political expectations about what can and cannot be taught.

We have seen fierce debates over the removal or revision of historical interpretation at national parks, scrutiny of museums dedicated to African American history, continuing efforts to restrict how race and systemic inequality are discussed in classrooms, and legislative battles over whether African American history should receive the same academic standing as other historical subjects.

These are not arguments about mythical kingdoms or fictional romances.

These are debates about documented American history.

History that belongs to all of us.

That contrast is difficult to ignore.

Too often, some of the loudest voices defending the imagined identity of fictional characters seem far less concerned when the historical record of real Black Americans is challenged, minimized, or politicized.

We will spend weeks arguing over the race of a mermaid while giving comparatively little attention to whether students fully understand the legacy of the Tuskegee Airmen.

We passionately debate whether Helen of Troy should be portrayed by a Black actress while paying far less attention to whether future generations will understand the realities of slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Movement, or the countless Black innovators, educators, soldiers, scientists, entrepreneurs, artists, and public servants who helped build this nation.

That imbalance should concern all of us.

To be clear, this is not an argument that everyone who opposes race-conscious casting also supports limiting Black history. Those are separate questions, and many people who prefer historical fidelity also strongly support preserving honest history.

But the broader cultural imbalance remains.

We have somehow created an environment where preserving the imagined appearance of fictional characters often generates more public passion than preserving the documented experiences of real people.

Perhaps no example illustrates this contradiction better than Cynthia Erivo.

Here is one of the most accomplished performers of her generation.

A Tony Award winner.

A Grammy Award winner.

An Emmy Award winner.

A two-time Academy Award nominee.

Yet some critics dismissed her casting as Elphaba by reducing her accomplishments to a three-letter accusation: DEI.

Think about that.

A Black woman with extraordinary credentials was accused of receiving preferential treatment while portraying a fictional woman whose defining physical characteristic is that her skin is green.

If excellence itself can be dismissed as “DEI,” then perhaps the debate was never really about qualifications.

Perhaps it was always about something else.

Art has always evolved.

Shakespeare’s works have been reimagined for centuries.

Greek mythology has been retold by countless cultures.

Comic books are routinely rewritten.

Science fiction reinvents itself with every generation.

Every generation adapts classic stories through its own lens.

Whether audiences embrace those interpretations is a matter of personal taste.

History is different.

History is not mythology.

History is not fantasy.

History is our collective memory.

Once historical knowledge disappears from classrooms, museums, archives, libraries, and public spaces, recovering it becomes far more difficult than recasting a movie.

That is why I find our cultural priorities so perplexing.

If America devoted even half as much energy to preserving Black history as it does debating Black actors portraying fictional characters, we might spend less time arguing over mythology and more time ensuring every child understands the full complexity of our nation’s story.

One debate is about entertainment.

The other is about memory.

One concerns characters who never existed.

The other concerns millions of Americans who did.

Reasonable people can disagree over who should play Helen of Troy.

There should be far less disagreement about preserving the history of people who actually lived.

Because fiction can always be rewritten.

History cannot.

Frankly Speaking, Adrienne P. Whitaker
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