To talk about Twice and villainy is to talk about class and criminality (III)
Masterpost
Class in BNHA
Returning to my earlier point that BNHA should be read alongside the social concerns of real-world Japan, I want to note that these events almost surely affected and remained within Horikoshi’s awareness. Horikoshi was born in 1986, and thus lived through the economic downturns of the 90′s and 2000′s as a child and young adult. In 2010 when Sugimoto’s article was published—not in the least the first of its kind—Horikoshi was 24 years-old, more than old enough to remember the public discourses about Japan’s kakusa shakai. In 2008, only two years earlier, an award-winning film dealing with the financial struggles of a Tokyo family, Tokyo Sonata, was released, and 2012 saw an infamous starvation case involving a family that made international headlines. In 2014, BNHA began serialization. Without speculating on the political leanings of the author himself, it seems remiss not to posit the likelihood that these events and the atmosphere they engendered can be connected to Horikoshi’s writing and the kind of story he intends to tell. While BNHA isn’t what I’d necessarily call class-conscious, the ways it delves into class is noticeable even outside of Jin’s backstory and are worth a discussion.
If not exactly class-conscious, there nevertheless seems to be an awareness of class in BNHA. Not even our heroes are able to fully escape it, and in 1-A, there are small distinctions drawn between the experiences of more wealthy students and ones that are less well-off. For example, Yaoyorozu Momo wows classmates with her stately house, brings expensive furniture into the dorms, and exhibits naïve joy at shopping at an outlet store; Todoroki Shouto’s family home was shown to be a large, traditional residence, and a secondary house has since been built on the income of his formerly abusive, currently estranged father. Both students come from established hero families, and both were admitted to U.A. based on recommendation. On the other hand, Uraraka Ochako comes from a working-class family, and explains that a big part of her decision to become a hero is to support her parents’ business. She’s also been shown to be amazed at U.A.’s dorm facilities, and has frequent jokes made about her thriftiness in bonus material. When it comes to villains, these issues manifest with much more distinctiveness. Aside from Jin, a couple members of the Shie Hassaikai also bring up issues of class and exploitation when they explain their decision to join Overhaul: one was indebted, and the other had his Quirk exploited by an unethical boss. When Overhaul found them, they were “rotting away on the streets.”
On another level, BNHA is certainly hierarchy-conscious. As I’ve brought up before, many of the antagonist groups we see are strictly hierarchal, and more importantly, the lower-ranking members are often commanded to live and die according to their leader’s desires. From the members of the Shie Hassaikai to the Meta Liberation Army, we continuously see them lending their bodies and Quirks to the causes of their superiors, only to be discarded at the most opportune moments: Overhaul directly uses one of his followers as a meat shield, and the Meta Liberation Army decides to put their members in the path of danger, just to steal some glory from the LOV. Geten, from the MLA, has no qualms about enacting such wide-scale destruction that the members of his own organization get caught in the crossfire.
It seems relevant to mention that Yotsubashi Rikiya “Redestro,” the wealthy CEO of Detnerat and successor to the revolutionary Destro, makes his official appearance in the series through an advertisement, a medium tied to the capitalist drive for production and consumerism. Advertisements can also be understood as a medium for misrepresentation, an idealized image created to maximize sales, and sure enough, Redestro’s friendly façade gives way when he kills his assistant, Miyashita, for a mildly disparaging comment about Destro’s ideals. Before the murder, Redestro asks Miyashita whether he has a family or a significant other, making sure that his absence will not be missed, but the pointed question also seems to work as a stand-in for the invisibility of those who “serve” the rich, who can be discarded without hardly a blink of an eye. Miyashita, despite his proximity to wealth and to the wealthy, despite being on all counts a hardworking, model employee, remains expendable in the eyes of his boss. Furthermore, this act of violence occurs not in the supposedly crime-ridden streets—it happens in a swanky office building, where both killer and victim are supposedly working in civilian capacities. It suggests that hierarchies are not something that only belong in the villain world, but that these cycles of exploitation and expendability proliferate throughout society down to our offices and homes.
Quirks as determiners of worth.
In fact, home is where we bear witness to one of the greatest feats of exploitation: in the marriage between Rei and her abuser. Of course, the greatest foundation in this dynamic is patriarchy, wherein the woman is treated like the property of her husband, but there’s a subtle twist in this arrangement thanks to the introduction of Quirks. Rei’s marriage was not simply considered an “arranged marriage,” but specifically a “Quirk marriage” meant to strengthen the Quirks of the following generation by choosing a suitable partner. The Quirk marriage between Rei and her abuser was facilitated by his wealth and fame—acquired through his work in the line of pro heroes—therefore placing a price tag on her Quirk and on her person. I consider this to be an indication of the commodification of Quirks—“commodity” meaning roughly, in the Marxist sense, something that can be “bought or sold” or “exchanged in the market.”
Of course, the horrific thing about purchasing Quirks is they are attached to humans. Quirks are genetic mutations, and are stated in-text to specifically be biological attributes; without a human with the appropriate genetic mutation, a specific Quirk doesn’t exist. If the past serves as any lesson, it’s likely that as Quirks (and the humans who wield them) began to be seen as increasingly valuable, the ruling class soon caught on to the fact that Quirks needed to be controlled, regulated, and diverted to serve the interests of capital. Thus, Quirk regulations were born to prevent a potentially cataclysmic disruption to the means of production, as were pro heroes—a superpowered arm of law enforcement to deal with superpowered criminals. Contemporarily, heroes are largely those whose Quirks are considered the most valuable, and they’re paid for wielding said Quirks in defense of the rule of law; in other words, they sell their Quirk-wielding expertise. While Quirks themselves can’t yet be bought and sold (at least not on a wide scale), the humans attached to them can be.
This leads to yet another societal dysfunction. Because some Quirks are considered more valuable than others, and because Quirks are attached to persons, some people are considered more valuable than others. This comes through even more clearly in the original Japanese word for Quirk: 個性 (kosei). Kosei can be translated as “individuality” but also as “personality” or “character,” e.g. she has a strong personality (kosei), [source] a meaning that inevitably implicates the human behind the personality. But in the world of BNHA, a strong kosei no longer simply means a strong personality—it can also mean a strong Quirk. In the linguistic realm, personality and Quirk have become indistinguishable, and this has two effects: one, Quirks are presumed to influence personality (as in the cases of Toga and Shinsou), and two, that which makes us individual, our personalities, has become entangled with Quirks-as-commodity. That is to say, one’s kosei determines one’s worth under capitalism.
Of course, people with “good” or “valuable” Quirks (and thus presumably “good” and “valuable” personalities) are funneled into law enforcement and encouraged to uphold the status quo—the very status quo which increases their chances of gaining wealth, fame, and prestige that they can then pass down to subsequent generations. However, the policing class must justify its existence—if there is no crime, then there’s no need for policing. In one respect, this “need” is manufactured by criminalizing poverty (as discussed above), and other harmless acts (such as drug possession), and by creating the adverse, alienated conditions in which violence is not considered only necessary, but normal for both the policing class and those who are policed. Under the classification of value, however, there’s another easy scapegoat: people with “bad” or “worthless” Quirks.
While no Quirk is explicitly criminalized, there are many Quirks that carry a stigma, including the likes of Transform and Brainwash (whose wielders are regarded with suspicion for fear of “bad” personalities); some Quirks walk the line between “criminalized” and “stigmatized” altogether. Consider the Quirk wielded by the indebted member of the Shie Hassaikai, which allows him to transfer any object on another’s person into his hands: the Quirk is called “Larceny.” The naming is telling; it draws a direct link between indebtedness/need, and theft as a crime and as a kosei. With some people presumed “destined” for crime, and those presumptions becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy as they’re shut off from opportunities for advancement, law enforcement is endowed with legitimacy. Heroes and villains become two sides of the same coin—one unable to exist without the other, both socially-constructed categories to perpetuate the ruling class.
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