by Leah Wilson
OTHER YOUNG ADULT TITLES
FROM SMART POP BOOKS
Demigods and Monsters
Your Favorite Authors on Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Ender’s World
Fresh Perspectives on the SF Classic Ender’s Game
Flirtin’ with the Monster
Your Favorite Authors on Ellen Hopkins’ Crank and Glass
The Girl Who Was on Fire
Your Favorite Authors on Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games Trilogy
Mind-Rain
Your Favorite Authors on Scott Westerfeld’s Uglies Series
A New Dawn
Your Favorite Authors on Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series
Nyx in the House of Night
Mythology, Folklore, and Religion in the P.C. and Kristin Cast Vampyre Series
The Panem Companion
An Unofficial Guide to Suzanne Collins’ Hunger Games, From Mellark Bakery to Mockingjays
Shadowhunters and Downworlders
A Mortal Instruments Reader
Through the Wardrobe
Your Favorite Authors on C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia
DIVERGENT
THINKING
DIVERGENT
THINKING
YA AUTHORS ON VERONICA ROTH’S
DIVERGENT TRILOGY
EDITED BY LEAH WILSON
THIS PUBLICATION IS UNOFFICIAL AND UNAUTHORIZED. IT HAS NOT BEEN PREPARED, APPROVED, AUTHORIZED, LICENSED, OR ENDORSED BY ANY ENTITY THAT CREATED OR PRODUCED THE WELL-KNOWN DIVERGENT BOOK OR FILM SERIES.
© 2014 BenBella Books, Inc.
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First e-book edition: March 2014
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Divergent Thinking : YA Authors on Veronica Roth’s Divergent Trilogy / edited by Leah Wilson.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-939529-92-3 (paperback) — ISBN 978-1-940363-34-9 (electronic) 1. Roth, Veronica. Divergent series. 2. Young adult fiction, American—History and criticism. I. Wilson, Leah, editor of compilation.
PS3618.O8633Z58 2014
813’.6—dc232013049188
Copyediting by Brittany Dowdle, Word Cat Editorial Services
Proofreading by Jenny Bridges and Michael Fedison
Text design and composition by Silver Feather Design
Printed by Bang Printing
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COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“From Factions to Fire Signs” © 2014 by Rosemary Clement-Moore
“Divergent Psychology” © 2014 by Jennifer Lynn Barnes
“Mapping Divergent’s Chicago” © 2014 by V. Arrow
“Choices Can Be Made Again” © 2014 by Maria V. Snyder and Jenna Snyder
“Ordinary Acts of Bravery” © 2014 by Elizabeth Norris
“Fear and the Dauntless Girl” © 2014 by Blythe Woolston
“They Injure Each Other in the Same Way” © 2014 by Mary Borsellino
“Secrets and Lies” © 2014 by Debra Driza
“Bureau versus Rebels: Which Is Worse?” © 2014 by Dan Krokos
“Factions: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” © 2014 by Julia Karr
“The Downfall of Dauntless” © 2014 by Janine K. Spendlove
“Emergent” © 2014 by Elizabeth Gatland
Images © 2014 by Risa Rodil, RisaRodil.com
Faction and Chicago location icons © 2014 by Risa Rodil, RisaRodil.com
Water Tower Place photograph courtesy Jrissman, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:WaterTowerPlaceMall.JPG
Harold Washington Library photograph courtesy Beyond My Ken, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Harold_Washington_Library_southwest_owl.jpg
Flamingo photograph courtesy Richie Diesterheft, http://www.flickr.com/photos/puroticorico/
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
FROM FACTIONS TO FIRE SIGNS
Rosemary Clement-Moore
DIVERGENT PSYCHOLOGY
Jennifer Lynn Barnes
MAPPING DIVERGENT’S CHICAGO
V. Arrow
CHOICES CAN BE MADE AGAIN
Maria V. Snyder and Jenna Snyder
ORDINARY ACTS OF BRAVERY
Elizabeth Norris
FEAR AND THE DAUNTLESS GIRL
Blythe Woolston
THEY INJURE EACH OTHER IN THE SAME WAY
Mary Borsellino
SECRETS AND LIES
Debra Driza
BUREAU VERSUS REBELS: WHICH IS WORSE?
Dan Krokos
FACTIONS: THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY
Julia Karr
THE DOWNFALL OF DAUNTLESS
Janine K. Spendlove
EMERGENT
Elizabeth Wein
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE EDITOR
INTRODUCTION
A lot of people have called the Divergent trilogy “the next Hunger Games.” It’s a fair comparison in some ways: they’re both science-fiction dystopias with prickly, complex heroines. They’ve both left millions of readers thinking about them long after reading their final pages (even if—or maybe in part because—their endings were a little controversial). And, like many other dystopias, they both wrestle with the idea of control and how we resist it.
But where the Hunger Games engages with control on a societal level, the Divergent trilogy is more focused on the personal. Where the Hunger Games tells a story about rebellion and social change as much as it does about its protagonist’s efforts to subvert others’ use of her, Divergent is interested in a different kind of freedom—from exploitation, yes, but also from the labels society puts on us and the subtle pressures of others’ expectations. From our individual fears and from our personal histories. These things may shape us, the Divergent trilogy says, but they do not control us.
Allegiant introduces us to two different, though interrelated, agents of control. First, there’s the Bureau of Genetic Welfare, the organization that designed Tris’ city hundreds of years ago as an experiment, constantly monitors its goings-on, and steps in (either directly, by wiping memories, or American imperialist–style, by supplying weapons to the side they like best) whenever that experiment’s integrity is threatened. Second, there’s genetic damage, which—the Bureau claims—controls one’s nature so thoroughly that the kindest thing to do for a GD is take away her identity and sequester her in a community where she can be more effectively controlled. (After all, look at the way they live outside those communities, in the fringe!)
At first, Allegiant’s focus on the Bureau and genetics makes the book feel like a strange departure from the earlier parts of Tris’ story. But it eventually becomes clear that this new world, the one outside the city, is just another version of the one we came to know in Divergent and Insurgent, that microcosm writ large—a more familiar mirror, a world one step closer to our own, in which the trilogy’s earlier themes are reflected. We’ve seen the unfeeling, arrogant scientists before, in Jeanine and the Erudite, who use their serums
and superior knowledge to manipulate and control (in the case of the Dauntless, quite literally). We’ve seen, in the factions, the idea that there is something innate that determines the course of your life—an inborn quality you can test for, that tells you who you should associate with and what jobs you can do.
In both worlds, Tris proves herself to be a hero. And in both worlds, she does so in a way that shows that heroism is a choice you make, not something you’re born with.
In the context of the trilogy’s first two books, Tris is our hero because she is Divergent—because she is aware during simulations, but even more important, because she cannot be contained by any one of her city’s labels . . . even if she must pretend to be. Her Divergence puts her in danger, but it also means she has a choice: both at the Choosing Ceremony and in every moment after.
The thing is, though, everyone in her city has a choice—at least in theory. That’s why it’s called a Choosing Ceremony. Caught between the desire to choose Dauntless and the expectation she will choose Abnegation, Tris defies her upbringing and chooses to be brave. But every one of her fellow sixteen-year-olds has the option to choose as well, not according to social pressure and not according to their test results, but according to their own values—according to who they want to be rather than who their family and history has made them. We know Tris’ father made his choice this way when he left Erudite for Abnegation. It could be argued Tobias does, too, despite his claim to have chosen Dauntless out of cowardice. Neither of them is Divergent. (Nor are the other transfers in Tris’ Dauntless initiate class, for that matter.) And both are successful as transfers. Tobias finishes first in his initiate class; Tris’ father is a well-regarded councilman. Their successes are just two of many, many examples in the Divergent trilogy that, even if they are “genetically damaged,” human beings have the ability to learn and to grow. Ultimately, we are the ones in control of what and who we become.
Other people, whether our parents, our factions, our government, or the tests they design and administer, can try to influence us. They can tell us what they think we should believe, and who they think we should be. They can try to teach and guide us. But what we learn from them—what we do with the information we receive from them about the world and its truths—is up to us. Bureau director David gives Tris her mother’s journal, no doubt thinking it will lead Tris to believe in the Bureau’s cause. She brings the Bureau down instead. Edith Prior’s video was supposed to encourage the city to protect the Divergent and treat them as special, but it only ends up leading Jeanine and her predecessor Norton to kill them.
I’d suggest that, by the end of Allegiant, Divergence comes to mean more than just awareness within simulations or having an aptitude for more than one faction. It also suggests awareness, in the real world, of our ability to choose, no matter what our genes say. Of our ability to become, as Tobias says in Divergent, “brave, and selfless, and smart, and kind, and honest.” Of our ability to think and act independent of influence, whether that influence comes in a serum or from the ones we love.
What does all this contemplation of control and awareness have to do with the book you’re holding?
The Divergent trilogy, like any book, is an invitation. It’s an invitation to think, and to feel, and to experience. But while a book offers us a story to respond to, it can’t control what that response is any more than a video or a “damaged”gene can. Because the way you read a book—the way you react to events and characters, the conclusions you draw—depends on you: your history, your interests, your values.
The Divergent trilogy provides a wealth of ideas for readers to respond to. Divergent Thinking collects the responses of more than a dozen of those readers, all of whom also happen to be YA writers themselves. Each came to Tris’ story with his or her own influences and experiences, and each came away with—and shares here—something different.
The same faction system led Rosemary Clement-Moore to think about why we enjoy stories that sort us into categories, Jennifer Lynn Barnes to think of a particular way psychologists classify personality, and Julia Karr to think about the inherent dangers a system like the one in the Divergent trilogy presents.
Blythe Woolston came away from the books thinking about fear, while Elizabeth Norris thought about bravery.
Maria V. Snyder and her sixteen-year-old daughter Jenna couldn’t read about the Choosing Ceremony without thinking of Jenna’s own upcoming choice: of colleges.
The trilogy’s setting led Chicago-resident V. Arrow to wonder how the series’ landmarks would map onto her city’s real ones.
There are plenty more ways to look at the Divergent trilogy than the ones you’ll read here—as many as there are people who’ve read it, I suspect. Still, reading what this particular set of readers saw in the trilogy made my experience of the books significantly richer. It made me a little more aware of what the Divergent trilogy had to offer, and led me to engage both with the story and my own world in new ways.
In fact, you could say that reading these essays made my reading of the trilogy a little more, well, divergent.
Leah Wilson
December 2013
You can’t talk about the Divergent trilogy without talking about the faction system (and don’t worry, we’ll be talking about the faction system plenty). The tension between factions—in particular, Erudite and Abnegation—is the chief source of conflict in Divergent, and that tension is only compounded by the introduction, in Insurgent, of the factionless as a united, antifaction force. In Allegiant’s biggest reveal, we discover that the philosophies on which the factions were built are integral to the reason Tris’ city even exists.
So that’s where we start this collection: with Abnegation, Amity, Candor, Dauntless, and Erudite, and with Rosemary Clement-Moore’s consideration of our human obsession with sorting ourselves and others, both in history and in literature.
FROM FACTIONS TO FIRE SIGNS
Personality Types and the Elements of Heroism
ROSEMARY CLEMENT-MOORE
What’s your sign?
It’s a pickup line so old that dinosaurs used it to hook up down at the Tar Pit Lounge.
Back in the day, in the time between matchmakers and Match.com, people had to go places in person when they wanted to meet a potential date. One had to actually start a conversation. Verbally. Face-to-face. It’s a feat that the bravest Dauntless might find paralyzing.
Asking someone’s astrological sign as a conversational opener would be a great time-saver, relationship-wise, if the date of your birth were any kind of reliable predictor of personality or compatibility. Instead, it really says more about the asker: Ironic hipster? Geriatric pickup artist in a retirement community? Time traveler from the 1970s?
(If you’re wondering, I am a Capricorn. According to astrologists, this means I’m industrious, hardworking, ambitious, pragmatic, and tend to be conventional and possibly egotistical. In reality, I am all about “work smarter, not harder,” I write fantasy novels, and, at the moment, my hair is dyed blue.)
Even people who don’t check their horoscope daily sometimes use zodiac signs as a sort of psychological shorthand to describe people—including themselves. Back in college, my BFF (science major, D&D player, fellow Capricorn) explained why two of our social circle couldn’t get along: “They’re both Leos. It’s their way or the highway.” (My BFF likes to classify things. Of course she does. She’s a scientist, which is a classification in itself.)
As far as our oil-and-water friends were concerned, it was certainly true that each of them liked things the way she liked them. And both were born under the Leo sign. Coincidence? Almost definitely.
The difference between being born in a faction or born under a zodiac sign is that while you can’t choose your birthdate, you can choose your faction. Or at least you can pick from a limited range of options. Even if you’re secretly Divergent, you still have only five choices—six, if you count factionless, which is viewed as a fate worse than death. So
, basically, you can be Candor, Amity, Abnegation, Erudite, Dauntless, or screwed.
Dystopian literature is full of worlds where the roles are assigned, rigid, and nonnegotiable. In one of the earliest examples, Brave New World, before people are even born they are sorted into Alphas, Betas, Gammas, Deltas, and Epsilons, and assigned jobs like bees in a hive. In Ally Condie’s Matched trilogy, teens have everything from their job to their diet to their future spouse picked for them by complicated statistical algorithms. In the Hunger Games trilogy, the twelve (known) districts of Panem are geographical divisions, but their industry and economy affect both the abilities and attitudes of the tributes, so that saying you’d be from District 1 means something radically different than claiming District 12 as your own.
Why do we like books that sort people? When it comes to dystopian series like Divergent, there are multiple answers. One, when you divide people up into factions, districts, ideologies, etc., it’s pretty easy to keep them arguing with each other instead of noticing you’re taking over the world. Two, as readers, we learn vicariously that the ability to choose for yourself what your role will be, whom you will love, and whom you will (or won’t) fight is worth overthrowing the powers that be. And three, stories about enterprising heroes who take down totalitarian regimes make satisfying reading, and often very exciting movies.
But even benign fantasy worlds have their own kind of sorting. J. R. R. Tolkien has Hobbits and Rangers, Elves and Dwarves. And that’s just the good guys. J. K. Rowling’s world has the four houses of Hogwarts, and Anne McCaffrey’s Pern has Holders and Crafters and Dragonriders. World of Warcraft has Horde and Alliance; Dungeons & Dragons has Lawful and Chaotic versions of Good, Evil, and Neutral.
We like to imagine where we would fit into these worlds. We take online quizzes to sort ourselves into Gryffindor or Slytherin or Ravenclaw (does anyone really want to be Hufflepuff?1). In conjunction with the Catching Fire movie, Fandango.com had a “Which District Are You?” quiz. We choose Horde or Alliance. We create characters that are paladins, thieves, mages, and rogues, and confined to the spells/abilities of their class.
