{shortcode-ece65c0c3afe87eecf79af7d51c122e9741b6a32}July 19 marked 10 years since the finale of “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” the Nickelodeon animated kids’ fantasy series, first aired. My mother reliably assures me it did show on TV where I was raised and live, India, but I had never even heard of it while it was running. Now, I run through all 60-odd episodes between each semester of college, not least because the show’s arcs and themes are ones that inspire my own writing. But with every rerun, the wish hits me like a two-ton truck—that I could have watched this show for the first time as a kid.

My first contact with “The Last Airbender” was through the 2010 M. Night Shyamalan live-action adaptation, a movie that could not be redeemed by even Dev Patel. I was not impressed, and I cringe even now when I catch glimpses of it on TV. The movie has myriad flaws, but having watched its source material several times now, I know that part of the magic for me comes specifically from the East Asian and Inuit influences on the show’s storyline. The elemental magic of the Avatar world is not just shooting water or fire; it’s specifically tied to martial arts, which are in turn specifically tied to cultures. Seeing white actors Nicola Peltz and Jackson Rathbone in the roles of Katara and Sokka from the Inuit-inspired Water Tribe saps that beauty, like a pale, dissatisfying shadow of a rich, diverse setting. Reflecting on it now, it’s pretty amazing that a TV show so plainly influenced by non-Western cultures ran for years to critical acclaim, amid American favorites like “Danny Phantom” (2004-2007), “The Fairly OddParents” (2001-2017), and “Kim Possible” (2002-2007).

Most of all, I wish I had a character like Katara while growing up. Aang, the Avatar, might be the show’s chosen one, but Katara, a young waterbender from the South Pole, is the viewers’ introduction to the world: The famous intro speech before every episode is in her voice, and she’s the first character we meet. She might not be Indian like me, but seeing a brown female main character in a fantasy show or book is rare enough. Between the stereotypes and the throwaways (yes, I’m looking at you, Patil twins), it’s refreshing and inspiring to watch Katara, who is not transplanted to another culture but carries the influence of the Southern Water Tribe with her, in everything from her style of dress to her waterbending. And yet Katara—whose village was attacked, who hasn’t seen her father in years, whose mother was killed by Fire Nation soldiers—also bears the pain of subjugation, like so many other brown girls.

Like all the girls I have ever been, Katara is full of wonderful contradictions. She’s the bossy, straight-laced mom of the group, but also a formidable fighter. In the show’s course she goes from a girl who can barely waterbend to a master who defeats a firebending prodigy. Her defining quality is her compassion. In one episode, she delays the gang’s quest to save the world by days in order to help an impoverished village, and delivers one of her most memorable lines: “I will never, ever turn my back on people who need me.”

And yet, she nurses grudges like they’re living things to be fed anger and hurt; she feels betrayal as keenly as dagger wounds. Nowhere is this more obvious than when Zuko, the Fire Nation prince who hunted Katara and her friends for two seasons, decides to help the gang instead. While the rest of Team Avatar warms up to Zuko, Katara remains suspicious of his motives—not just because of what he represents and the trouble he’s caused, but because of his previous very personal betrayal, when he rejected her offer of help and forgiveness. “Katara is so annoying,” my brother complained during my latest rewatch, after several episodes of her snapping at Zuko. It was his first time watching the show, so I chose to stay quiet instead of jumping to her defense. I love Zuko’s redemption arc, but these scenes always give rise to some unnamed feeling in me. Only this time did I realise why. Like Katara, I would not forgive so quickly. I may never have had a fire-conjuring prince chase me around the world, but I count my betrayals too. And that realization was sharply rewarding—because if I can see myself in Katara’s most spiteful, bitter moments, then maybe I can learn to see myself in her kindness.

This is not to say that the show is exempt from criticism. There are creative decisions it takes that I disagree with, even where Katara’s concerned. But for the creators to bring to life a brown heroine with empathy and love—to identify her within the show as “the brave Katara”—means more to me than I can ever fully put into words. I might not have grown up with Katara, but I can at least meet her now as I continue finding myself, again and again and again.

—Stuti R. Telidevara ’20, a Crimson Blog Chair, is an English concentrator in Cabot House.