Why Do I Identify with Hated Female Characters?

What makes some female characters unlikeable — and why do I relate most to those qualities?

In one of my final courses as a humanities student, we were asked: “What does feminism mean to you?” And while this question initially appeared straightforward, I found myself contemplating the answer long after the semester had ended. As I experienced the final days of my last year as an undergraduate, I began reflecting not only on the concept of feminism itself, but also on everything that has shaped me into the person I am today. Who was I as a young adult, and more importantly, what made me this way? In attempting to answer these questions, I was also inspired by a 2018 New York Times article entitled, “I Don’t Get Angry, I Get Sad,”¹ where author Leslie Jamison suggests that the “self” is influenced by external factors, including the people, media and social systems we engage with. Jamison’s work made me consider how much of my own understanding of empowerment came from the media I consumed, and how my relationship with that media has developed over time.

Fictional characters have always played a central role in shaping my identity. From an early age, I began to distinguish who I was — and who I wanted to be — through the shows, movies and books that were staples of my adolescence. When I first entered online fan communities — Reddit, YouTube and Instagram comment sections — I became preoccupied with subcultures devoted to debating and deconstructing characters. Through the process of discussing my favourite shows, I was disappointed to discover that many of the female characters I had identified with or felt some kinship to were not only widely despised by fans but also considered some of the least likable characters in TV history. Girls like Jenny Humphrey (Gossip Girl), Dawn Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer), and Rory Gilmore (Gilmore Girls) defy stereotypical conventions of how young women should act and behave, including exhibiting flaws that led them to be labelled “unlikeable.” The way each character defies these conventions is tied to their authenticity and specific representation as whole, developed individuals. This, in and of itself, goes against the makeup of a stereotypical female character — being messy, constantly evolving and making mistakes.

In many ways, this is how I’ve come to view my own version of feminism — not as a static ideology, but as the freedom to encompass a multitude of contradictions. Since the early 2000s, when these shows were airing, conversations around inclusion and diversity have shifted. A common trend reflected in TV and film within the last few years is a push for more inclusivity and diversity. However, because much of what is portrayed is superficial, it almost defeats the purpose of highlighting these groups in the first place. This is how I feel about female representation in the media, whether past or current—limited representations of women promote the erasure of diverse experiences. A “strong” female character cannot just be empowering on a surface level, just as a group cannot be defined by one trope or aspect of their makeup. And yet, while the term “girl power” has become ingrained into our vocabulary, it is still reserved for a certain kind of girl. In a post #MeToo world, why do we accept some versions of female struggle but reject others? Is empathy only warranted for those who present themselves a certain way? If society praises the “strong” girl, should that not mean accepting everything that makes them who they are?

Headlines and fan content I came across while writing

In Gossip Girl, Jenny Humphrey, a 14-year-old girl, is sexually assaulted by an older male character. While her assailant is afforded the opportunity for redemption, she is vilified throughout the show. Jenny is no saint—she acts out, hurts the people she loves and rejects sympathy from those who give it to her. As a result, her attempts to control her narrative do not fit the traditional “victim” trope. Female characters are often categorized by labels such as the “popular girl” or the “social outcast.” And yet, one is never both of these girls at once. Jenny is an outsider with a sense of autonomy and independence, learning to navigate a new world of mean girls, social norms and hierarchies. She cares deeply about “fitting in” and being accepted by her peers, while also striving to be her own person, divorced from the sheep around her. When I watched Gossip Girl for the first time, I didn’t realize how much a part of me needed a character like Jenny, someone navigating how to belong while remaining true to herself. But unlike her, I kept that conflict within, never acting on anger or frustration, avoiding being loud or making mistakes at all costs. While these themes of what it means to “fit in” might be relatable for many girls, much of the criticism directed at Jenny comes from the very demographic her story resonates with. Her coming of age is not defined by a romantic arc but is focused instead on the cost of ambition, identity and what it truly means to be accepted. Jenny’s behaviour is hard for many to watch because she exhibits the qualities young women are taught to bury, destroy, lock up in a tiny little box and shove deep down in the depths of ourselves.

There seems to be a commercial value in the “hated girl”; she sparks discussion and provides a source of controversy. But that doesn’t explain the broader undercurrents of why she is hated. The same attributes that make a character like Jenny relatable — her anger, self-sabotage and heightened emotions — are qualities we are taught from a young age not to indulge in. Jamison notes how these social systems and established norms enforce our view and expression of ourselves, stating: “For years, I described myself as someone who wasn’t prone to anger. Sadness seemed more refined and also more selfless — as if you were holding the pain inside yourself.” As women, we are told to be accommodating and nurturing, to sit with our legs together. What happens when we don’t do these things? Discomfort also seems to stem from the idea of female characters existing outside the archetypes we’re fed from a young age. Jenny does not present the typical victim archetype as being weak or helpless, and this is something that makes people uncomfortable. Jamison notes how, “We love a victim to hurt for, but grow irritated by one who hurts too much. A woman couldn’t hurt and be hurt at once.” Jenny experiences assault, bullying, and abandonment, yet none of these things define her at any point in the show. Characters like Jenny remind me that we never have to let certain experiences dictate who we are, keep us stuck in one mindset or affect who we choose to become.

When Dawn Summers found out she wasn’t just Buffy’s little sister, but instead a magical key to unlock the gates to the universe, she rightfully freaked out—and suddenly, she didn’t belong. There are a handful of moments in my life when I felt like an outsider. And while this often resulted in turning inward as a form of survival, it also meant denying myself the freedom of truly expressing what I was feeling. Dawn, as a character, has been boiled down by fans over the years as “annoying.” She is exposed to endless traumatic events: her mother dying, her sister dying and coming back to life, familial neglect, kidnapping and more. Yet, the amount of sympathy from fans over the years exists in stark contrast to the events that have occurred. Why is Buffy’s process of growing up received differently than someone like Dawn? Ironically, Buffy and Dawn present the exact dichotomy of this issue. Some girls are heroes; they have moments of vulnerability, but for the most part, carry themselves with confidence and are easy to root for. If Buffy is this kind of girl, Dawn is her counterpart: the childish, overly expressive foil who appears in moments of weakness, then retreats to where she came from. The leading girl is never afforded this kind of constant emotion; she cannot be “unlikable” all the time. But how do we determine the amount of anger or vulnerability that is acceptable?

I’ve never discovered I was a magical key created by monks, but I can empathize with the experience of waking up and suddenly realizing you don’t fit in with the people around you. Jamison notes how we are primed to group female sadness and anger into the “watertight compartments” of opposing archetypes, rather than acknowledging the ways they overlap. It took me years to realize that the feelings of alienation I had experienced at different moments of my life made some part of me angry. However, it seems repressed anger is not just a social construct that exists in the media we consume, but is essential to our conditioning as women. She continues, “The notion that female anger is unnatural or destructive is learned young; children report perceiving displays of anger as more acceptable from boys than from girls.” Jamison also cites a review of studies of gender and anger written by Ann M. Kring, a psychology professor at the University of California, Berkeley, which found that in the aftermath of anger episodes, women report experiencing more “shame and embarrassment.” She continues, “Angry women are messier. Their pain threatens to cause more collateral damage…we are most comfortable with female anger when it promises to regulate itself, to stay civilized.” Dawn is never embarrassed by her anger; instead, she exists as a pure representation of those simple, childlike instincts we are taught to suppress. Often, discussions in fan communities point to the fact that Dawn’s actress, Michelle Trachtenberg, was cast to play a much younger character, so her childish mannerisms and reactions to events are “too much.” While there is truth to this sentiment, it prompts the question of why we restrict certain emotions to younger girls in the first place. Without a filter, Dawn displays joy, pain, grief and rage throughout the series. This access to emotion is something I not only find compelling as I grapple with my own expressions of vulnerability, but also extremely cathartic to watch.

Unlike Dawn or Jenny, at the start of Gilmore Girls (2000), Rory Gilmore is quiet, bookish and loyal. Throughout the first few seasons, she often alternates between appeasing her rebellious mother and her uptight grandparents. But by the end of the series, she becomes what fans have deemed an “entitled brat.” Rory’s “downfall” has been discussed as a steady regression, ultimately compromising the character’s purity. Over time, as I followed the many layers of online fan reception, a pattern emerged: Rory was tolerated when she was easiest to root for and hated when her actions were morally grey. We learn early on that the leading girl should undergo some satisfying transformation, and everything should be figured out by the end. The girl with glasses gets a makeover by the popular crowd and eventually becomes prom queen. Something has to be fixed, changed or altered to make her “acceptable.” We also learn early on to see women as a certain type. One can be Season 1 Rory—perfect, dependable and smart, or Season 6 Rory—rebellious, lost, and out of control. A girl cannot be both at once. Rory embodies these qualities, and as a result, we question whether we should sympathize with or criticize her. Stealing boats, dropping out of college and losing yourself in the world of wealth and privilege are all hypothetically acceptable acts for a character who learns, grows and changes. By the end of the story, Rory is no longer this character.

Any admirable traits Rory possesses become lost under the umbrella of “unlikable.” Saying you relate to her character must be delivered with a caveat (I relate to Rory, but only in Season 1, NOT later on). Objectively, many of Rory’s actions are unlikeable, and that’s the point: perfection is unattainable, and life isn’t always satisfying; this ambiguity is uncomfortable. The show seems to ask what if the idealized girl fails to live up to her promise? Perhaps Rory’s narrative arc speaks to the pressures placed on gifted girls, those who have always been told they are exceptional, flawless. The deeper I became involved in these online conversations, the more personal they started to feel. I wasn’t just defending flawed fictional characters; I was attempting to create a reality where my own imperfections did not determine my value as a person. Through Rory’s mistakes, we see a portrait of what may happen when people tell you you’re special all your life: failure hits harder, and identity falls apart. Women can be disappointing or confused without ever being redeemed. While this may not be a likeable journey to witness, it is a real one. Perhaps this is also part of the reason Rory is so hated, because she represents those parts of us that are not often depicted on TV. It seems that somewhere in the media landscape which shaped our understanding of what girls should or should not be, we have forgotten that empathy and criticism can coexist.

I recently interacted with a fan in the comment section of a Gossip Girl Reddit who argued that they had no empathy for Jenny in a crucial episode because she had interfered with the “best” relationship on the show. Despite the character being mercilessly bullied, made to feel worthless, and at her lowest, choosing to lose her virginity to her past abuser, none of it mattered to this fan. In that moment, I was surprised at how much I was affected by this response; I realized then just how deeply I’d aligned myself with these characters. How could others, and especially other girls, not put themselves in her place? However, I realize that opinions are complex on their own; just as I project my own experiences onto characters, others do the same in very different ways from me. “I hate Jenny,” another fan once commented to me. “I was assaulted when I was her age and never acted out.” From my own experience, I’ve learned that fans are passionate about characters for a reason: they are a canvas onto which we can project our own life experiences. And yet, it is a controlled ability to root for—or against—the person we see on screen in ways we cannot be as direct when facing the mirror.

I believe there is something valuable in having these conversations. They bring to light some of the deeper-rooted issues ingrained in our society and some of the personal biases we hold without even realizing it. And while it seems a shift has occurred within the past few years, there is still a long way to go in creating a broader tolerance and nuanced understanding of hated female characters. The conclusion I’ve arrived at, for now at least, is that there is not one cause of this hatred, but, like female characters themselves, hate is composed of a variety of complex social and environmental factors that contribute to the whole. When I look at a character like Jenny, Rory or Dawn, I don’t want them to be “likeable” because that would go against the authenticity they possess. Perhaps the issue is not that these characters are unlikable, but that we lack tolerance for these qualities, which influences how much empathy we afford flawed characters. But real girls are not “one” thing. To boil down the impact of a character to the mere notion of likability defeats the purpose of why they matter. Instead, appreciating them is about learning to exist in the grey area, to wrestle with our own biases and have empathy despite feeling uncomfortable with their actions. This is how we learn to create space for a more genuine portrayal of girlhood.

Jamison ends her essay with a line from the poet Kiki Petrosino, who writes, “Once upon a time/I had enough anger in me to crack crystal.” That is to say, anger is a rejection of passivity, the drive to “make something happen.” The qualities that make girls “unlikable” are the same ones that prove we’re alive. To me, feminism means learning to recognize these 'flaws' within ourselves while allowing them the space to be there. Like Jenny, Dawn or Rory, we are multifaceted individuals with the capacity to be many things at once—and while those things aren’t always pretty, they make us who we are.

1. "Nytimes.com." The New York Times - Breaking News, US News, World News and Videos, 17 Jan. 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/01/17/magazine/i-used-to-insist-i-didnt-get-angry-not-anymore.html.