Avatar: The Last Airbender: Adult Themes in Children’s Storytelling

How do we introduce ideas of war into a child’s life?  When is the right age for a child to learn about death?  The question of heavy themes is one that reaches into the depths of children’s media and scratches its soul.  There is no straightforward answer for how and when the wicked concepts of the world should first be presented to young audiences, but if ever we’ve come close to one, it was through the Nickelodeon series Avatar: The Last Airbender.

The show opens with an iconic prologue that is still quoted to this day: Water, Earth, Fire, Air, delivered to audiences through a monochromatic sequence of different bending techniques.  The solemnity of this opening stands in stark contrast to those of the same era (Drake and Josh, Spongebob, and Fairly OddParents all come to mind) and sets the tone for a different kind of show.  A different kind of story. ATLA was Nickelodeon’s attempt at bringing the human condition into a child’s realm of comprehension, in a way that only the greats ever do.

Spoiler alert: it succeeded.  Wildly.

And it does so by taking the time to write a respectable story.  The overarching quest is clear and predictable, relying on the episodic details to grant us our mystical unknown.  The dialogue is sweet and oftentimes relatable, and strong.  To hear a piece of dialogue from this show is to sometimes take a direct strike to the chest, even as an adult.  Do you remember the first time you heard the words, “The greatest illusion in this world is the illusion of separation”?  Because I do. I remember it so distinctly, sitting on my parents’ couch in the basement with an orange flavored Otterpop, looking at my nose-picking little brother like maybe he could be the best friend I had in the whole world (he is now, and he probably was the whole time, even though I didn’t know it yet).  When the world gets a little scary and the fear of loneliness creeps into the edges of the night, that moment floods my memory, and everything feels a little easier.

That’s power.  That’s impact. This show revisits me in my adulthood and makes wintertime feel like Summer Vacation.  A good story needs to have that kind of emotion, especially one like ATLA—one that takes the horrors of the world and tries to make them a little easier to understand.

ATLA is first and foremost a story about war and the resolution of.  Such stories often come with their own array of heavy themes—genocide, sacrifice, legacy.  The kind of stuff that makes even us grown ups squirm when we think too long about them. The magic of a well told children’s story is that they can present these unpleasant themes in a way that feels safe and enables a level of distant catharsis.  They force us to empathize with the characters, even if that means feeling their pains and losses, as well as their love and success.  

But the best children’s stories recognize their audiences for what they truly are: children.  People who are young now and will one day, inevitably, grow old. I can think of no greater example of this phenomenon than ATLA.  It respects its audience and gives them silliness, happiness, and glee.  It establishes necessary language and provides children with words they may not yet have for emotions that they already do.  At the same time, it doesn’t shy away from them. It doesn’t condescend. Though likely not on the same scale as Aang, many children have already encountered death.  Though perhaps not on the same level as Zuko, many more children face immense strain with their parents. Heavy themes belong in children’s media, because children are frequently facing heavy themes.

ATLA provides tools for understanding.  Through Katara’s determination and rebellious spirit, children may come to better understand their own confidence.  Through Sokka’s loyalty and protection, they may come to understand family—born to or chosen. Aang teaches us of societal responsibility, Toph teaches us of self-learning, and Zuko teaches us the meaning of true apology in the single greatest redemption arc that television has seen to date.  More than that, each of these lessons is left open to the viewer to interpret, and so they expand far beyond this simple list.

This show does it all, and it does so in a way that is genuinely entertaining.  This isn’t The Canterbury Tales.  No one is preaching their fables to us.  It’s goofy, and silly, and the heart is ever so obvious.  ATLA simply gives us a life to live—hands us the proverbial shoes for us to step into.  It takes us on a grand adventure, refusing to hold our hand as we walk, but eternally at our side should we ever yearn for safety when the going gets tough.