Of course we look for ourselves in art — but if we stop there, we're missing out

David McKenna as Piggy in Netflix's new Lord of the Flies adaptation. J Redza/Eleven/Sony Pictures Television hide caption toggle caption J Redza/Eleven/Sony Pictures Television Watching Netflix's new adaptation of William Golding's Lord of the Flies , I found myself struggling. Grappling might be the better word, actually. I wasn't grappling with the show itself , an ambitious, gorgeously shot if ultimately thin take on a book I absolutely hated, back in ninth grade when my fellow classmates and I got pedagogically frog-marched through its ham-fisted symbolism. ("What do Piggy's spectacles represent? Write 500 words.") The new series' creator, Jack Thorne, co-created Adolescence , last year's grim chronicle of youth and violence and masculinity — hey, guy's got a niche. What I was grappling with was my own reaction to the show — namely, how the only character I could manage to care about was Piggy, the brainy, bespectacled fat kid who's forever carping about looking out for others, fire safety and finding water. (In both the series and in Golding's book, he represents civilization, judicious restraint, the voice of reason, etc. You get it.) My affinity for the character didn't exactly surprise me. Bullied? Bespectacled? Brainy? Body shame? Check, check, check, check. Piggy, c'est moi. But it did worry me, because it fed into something I started noticing long ago, when I used to teach writing at the high school and undergraduate level. …