The Authorized Ender Companion

by Black, Jake

  With the right education and the right approach, I was able to share my struggle with my loved ones and friends, and what I received in return was absolute acceptance and respect.

  I didn’t want to be dead, I love life, but living in the wrong body and living the lie made me feel like I would rather be dead, but I knew I loved life and loved living. So the only way I could do that would be to make the full transition, which I have done quite successfully.

  How this applies to OSC is that my name Jane was taken from the self-aware supercomputer in Speaker, Xeno, and Children.

  I always connected greatly to that character and I loved the name. Having freshly reread the series around the time I was making these most pivotal life decisions, I was greatly influenced by the work.

  My deceased grandmother’s name was Joyce. I didn’t want to use it for my first name. Jane, in my mind, represents the ultimate feminine, and power (because of these books), and it is a common name but I never once had met a Jane.

  It was already written in the destiny of my life, but Ender’s Game opened me up to Speaker, Xeno, and Children, which have been omens for the path that I walk.

  Jane Joyce B, graphic designer, musician

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Ender’s Game quite literally saved me from insanity, from myself. I’d just been kicked out of one of the U.S. Military’s most academically challenging programs—a place I feel is as close to Battle School as anything today—for medical problems out of my control. I was spiraling downward, struggling with depression, with suicide, to the point where I had to be hospitalized.

  My bonding over the Ender books with a friend I discovered there saved me. It felt as if we were Battle School students. It was nice to revitalize my mind, stretch my thinking, and mentally click with a friend who shared my love of Ender’s Game and, incidentally, my view on many things in life.

  Feeling like you are part Ender or part Bean gives you a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose, when all other means have failed you. Somewhere, somehow, the stories explain, there was someone who thought like you, who did the things you’d do, and they accomplished great things.

  Michael Heath, Starbucks barrista

  Ogden, Utah

  I was introduced to Ender’s Game by my school’s librarian. She praised it as being a book she loved, even though she hated science fiction. I already loved science fiction, so that was enough to sell me. That year, my freshman year in high school, I found myself totally absorbed in the stories of young Ender at Battle School and in the stories that followed in Speaker and Xenocide. I became something of an Ender’s Game missionary, recommending the novel to everyone until there was something of a cult following at my school.

  The book spoke to all of us on such a profound and spiritual level. For me, I found solace in Ender’s story, insofar as he had to find the strength to persevere through utter isolation and almost complete mental breakdown. I drew strength from knowing my own story was not entirely unique to me. I decided I was pushing myself too hard, with Ender serving as an example to me of what to avoid, and I think I may have thus avoided a similar breakdown or worse.

  Ender also helped reaffirm for me the truth and honesty of some of the values I had taken from my Christian faith. I already knew that killing was a sin, and that war was a moral wrong, but Ender gave me words to articulate why. The amazing message of the novel on the importance of empathizing with your enemy, of the dangers of engaging in total war, and the heavy toll such an approach to conflict takes on those who wage it all came together to give voice to my beliefs.

  After high school I continued being a missionary of Ender’s message. I’ve lost track at this point of how many times I’ve given out the book as a gift, but it happens at least a few times a year.

  After the horrific terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001, my work to spread this message seemed even more vital. In those dark and trying months after the attack, Americans were filled with hate and anger and prejudice. We sought retribution. When it came it was swift and terrible. We rained “shock and awe” on those we felt had wronged us with our superior destructive technology. At first our hate was aimed at those who may have deserved it. But then, led by liars and demagogues and opportunists and warmongers, and informed by our bigotry and fear, we extended our wrath to others who had done nothing at all to deserve it. Innocents died. Our allies disappeared. Our nation lost face. We started doing far more harm than “good.” We were making the same mistakes as the IF, repeating Ender’s tragedy, all for the same inability to empathize at all with our enemy, understand the nature of the conflict, or realistically evaluate its costs.

  My fervor in spreading the word of Ender grew. I started sharing the book with as many people as I could. Often it worked. After reading and discussing the book, I convinced many of errors in their thinking. People who had supported this unjust war and the liars who argued for it, thanks to Ender’s story, were now campaigning to vote those very liars out of power. Of course I don’t have any hard figures, but I’d like to think that some of my little movement may have had an impact during the last midterm election. I further hope that it might have an impact in this presidential election cycle. If that happens, then Ender’s Game would not have merely had a profound impact on me personally; it will have helped save the world against insanity, bloodlust, misguided moral conceitedness, and abhorrent egocentrism. Forces every bit as terrifying as the buggers.

  Ryan Nay, teacher

  Centreville, Virginia

  I’ve read Ender’s Game many times, but two times were the most significant. The first time I read the book, I was barely a teenager. Like most teenagers, I felt manipulated by adults, and powerless against them. I saw everything from Ender’s eyes and cheered him on when he defied the teachers. The ending was an absolute shock to me at that first reading and I remember feeling hurt, that they would use my good friend, Ender, that way. I didn’t understand the love of the game, the desire to win at all costs, and the necessity of what he did. I just wondered, “Why did he stay? Why didn’t he just refuse to play?”

  The second time Ender’s Game had more significance to me, I was a parent. I cried when he was taken from his mother and sister, with him so vulnerable and not knowing what was ahead. I cursed them for making him grow up so fast, taking away all shreds of innocence. I marveled that he survived in such an environment and finally, I understood why the teachers did what they did. They had a higher purpose in mind and he was the way to succeed. His innocence was a necessary sacrifice. I wondered if I could do the same, if my child was the hope of humanity.

  Someday my daughters will want to read the copy of Ender’s Game on my bookshelf and I’m anxious to discuss these ideas with them. They will come up with their own feelings and conclusions about this book and I just hope that I can see it from their perspective.

  Jennifer Hahn, mother, musician, and writer

  Parker, Colorado

  Through the series of novels beginning with Ender’s Game and ending with Shadow of the Giant, I have come to have a much deeper understanding of things that most of my life I have known intellectually to be true but could not find it in my heart to feel in earnest.

  Speaker for the Dead taught me that every man, no matter what wrongs he has committed over the course of his life, has done at least something that redeems him of his transgressions, if only a little.

  A novel much later in the series built upon this idea. God gives his love freely to all. Card’s Shadow Puppets taught me that no greater evidence than this is necessary to prove that each man is worthy of the love of his fellow man.

  Lance Dodson, IT professional

  Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  I’m not sure how my aversion to reading fiction developed. My mother used to devour science fiction novels, and I may have been jealous of her time. Perhaps I felt the enjoyment of fiction was a silly female trait that I didn’t wish to be defined by. But by the time I was eighteen, I was an intractable fiction sn
ob. There is not much hope for most of us.

  I was a college freshman in 1988, and for reasons that seemed good to them at the time, my parents made me the guardian of my sixteen-year-old brother. We lived in a small Victorian cottage down the hill from the University of Utah, and I made sure he had enough cheese and chocolate milk to survive. We had relatives in the vicinity. Still, I worried about him as I felt it was my duty to. He didn’t talk much, particularly about things that I felt were at the center of life.

  One autumn day we got an emergency disconnect notice from the gas company. Not having a vehicle and being reticent to venture downtown alone, I recruited my brother to go with me. As we walked, I tried involving him in conversation about school, college plans, and career aspirations, but he didn’t have much to say on any of that. Finally I asked him to tell me the story of the book he was reading at the time, which was Ender’s Game. He asked if I really wanted the story spoiled in case I ever decided to read it. I assured him there was no danger of my ever reading it.

  As he explained the plot to me, his reticent manner gave way to an animated intensity. It was like a gossip session about old friends, to hear him recount the adventures of Ender, Bean, Peter, Valentine, and the unfortunate Bonzo. Those things I had feared were not at the center of his life existed, they just didn’t revolve around the particular points mine did, such as my parents and their reasons for things seeming good to them. I suppose I got drawn into this center; I was curious to see, as the saying goes, what made him tick. And so I read Ender’s Game and I found it very lively, and I became a devoted reader of Card and tried other forays into fiction. But Ender’s Game is there at the center of my literary universe.

  When I meet people who don’t read much fiction, especially science fiction, I feel sad for them, but hopeful that someday they may trick themselves into trying just a little taste.

  Tricia Voss, bookkeeper

  Baltimore, Maryland

  My dad gave me Ender’s Game to read when I was in sixth grade. I was skeptical, never having read anything like it before. He guaranteed I’d like it, so I read it, and I am eternally grateful that he showed it to me. Ender’s Game opened up new worlds. I now knew there were genres other than fantasy and realistic fiction.

  I lived in Ender’s universe for three years after that, almost until I started high school. I greeted everyone I knew by saying “Ho” and fantasized about Battle School. But more than that, Ender’s Game opened up my mind. I began wondering about sentient beings on other planets, about space travel, about intelligent viruses that evolved. Things that would never have crossed my mind before now controlled my every thought. Ender’s Game is the book that changed the way I thought. I began thinking in terms of the universe, and became convinced we were not the only sentient creatures around. But I no longer had the childish notion that “aliens” were green with giant black eyes and a largish head. In fact, I did not even think of them as “aliens” anymore. While they may not be human, they were no longer strange, at least to me.

  I was, and I still am, completely comfortable with the thought of other sentient beings and habitable planets. I know Earth cannot be the only one. It has been five years since I first read Ender’s Game, and I have strayed little from the path it has set me on. While I no longer obsessively quote the book in conversation, I still make references every once in a while when they’re relevant. Ender’s Game is the book that taught me to believe, the book that taught me to question. It changed the way I looked at the world, at the universe. It changed my life, for the better.

  Nicole Friedman, student

  Trumbull, Connecticut

  When I was in high school, I was given the choice of two books to read for an English assignment. I chose Ender’s Game over Fahrenheit 451, mainly because it looked more interesting and was longer (I was a bookworm). I read the book over a weekend, and went on to read it at least a dozen more times over the years. When I met my husband-to-be, I shared it with him and he, too, was fascinated by it. When it came time to name our second child, a little boy, we immediately hit upon “Ender,” as we felt that the hero from our favorite book had all of the qualities that we would like our son to have. So, on May 20, 2002, Ender Scott (his daddy’s name is Scott) was born into this world. Small for his age, and very intelligent, he “flies” through our house, bouncing off walls, and flipping through space. If I close my eyes, I can almost see his namesake soaring through the battleroom.

  Stacy Fluegge, homemaker

  West Palm Beach, Florida

  I first read Ender’s Game when I found it on my brother’s bookshelf—it must have been shortly after it was published in paperback—and it was a great reading experience that raised the bar for sci-fi for me forever. I didn’t think about it too often after that until about fifteen years later while I was deployed with the Army to Kosovo.

  We had a rough time on that deployment; I was working in MEDEVAC and wasn’t prepared to find that most of our patients were kids and old people, folks like that who are true noncombatants. One day our platoon received a care package from a Boy Scout troop, and in it was a dog-eared copy of Ender’s Game. I think I actually whooped in delight and took it to the on-call tent and plopped down to read it.

  I can’t explain why, but Ender’s Game saved my sanity on that deployment. It was a rough time, and of the many books that I read, only this one really took me away in time and space from the place I was (and didn’t want to be). Perhaps it was Ender’s plight, being smaller and brighter than everyone around him. Perhaps it was the writing. In any case, I still have that copy of the book (more dog-eared than ever), and reread it every year or two.

  S. Corrie Blackshear, military

  Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri

  I had good reason to be skeptical, I thought, considering that I had never had someone insist that I read a book simply for its quality. A more pressing reason for my doubts was the nagging feeling that I was getting in over my head with the girl who lent it to me, and that that kind of complication was the last thing that my sixteen-year-old self needed.

  Still, I read Ender’s Game with a devouring interest, at first because of its science fiction elements, but later for a much more personal reason. In its covers I found, to my horror and shame, who I really was, and why I was. But unlike many others, who so closely identified with the genius children of space or the kind sister who always loved her younger brother, I found that I was the monster of the beginning of the novel: Ender’s terrifying older brother. Though I tried to shake the feeling, I was Peter in all his bristling arrogance, fierce cunning, ambivalence, and rage. I was also Peter in his insecurities, in his dashed hopes and ambitions, in his insatiable hunger for control.

  Peter’s family felt like my family writ large; for a boy of sixteen who had lost his tender sister to suicide, and had lost his brother to the other house of a broken home, the relationships between the children of the Wiggin household were the terrifyingly familiar beginnings of my own life. I was able to explain for myself how easy it is for the oldest boy to lash out when he had never been taught what to do with a younger brother who was better at most things, and better liked, or to blame others when he had never been taught how to recover from the inevitable failures and losses in life.

  The painful and liberating aspect of this story was not that it excused me from what I had done, but it showed me that the pain I caused was real, and that its very reality was itself a source of hope. For the novel’s end was in all ways hopeful, but that possibility of redemption was only realized through truth. It is only when Peter tells his story with unvarnished honesty that Ender can understand and forgive him; it would only be possible to find the reconciliation I craved if my brother could fully understand my acts and my motives, my former cruelty with my abiding love for him. It was in just that way that fiction became true, and gave a teenaged boy, reading alone in the near darkness in the spring of the year, hope—hope that personal evils could be purged and cherished relationship
s reborn. I wanted so desperately for the truth to do for me what it had done for Peter.

  And it did.

  Jason Wutzke, teacher

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  By the time I was eight years old, the speed at which I could devour books was legend in my family. One day after school my stepfather pulled me aside excitedly to hand me a book he’d just finished and said, “I don’t care what you’re reading now, I want you to read this.” I glanced at the cover, unsure if I would like something that looked so . . . mechanical. Then I opened the book, read the first page, and wandered off to my room without speaking to him.

  Two days later I had finished Ender’s Game and was halfway through rereading it again. Here was a book that spoke to me; it didn’t just offer respite, like the books I had read before. In Ender’s world, children were flexible and brilliant and fallible and adults were firm within their mistakes—what struck me then (as it does today, twenty years later) was the underlying message of empathy. Be unafraid to think, to speak the way you speak, but never stop loving. Love your enemies, so that you may understand them. At an age when my own emotions confused me only slightly less than those of the adults around me, it was a lesson that would carry me through the turbulent reconstruction of self that adolescence thrust on me, safe to the other side.

  Ender’s Game first introduced me to the idea that the big people around me had no more knowledge of how to navigate these waters than I did—and that was alright. I could think for myself, discover my own path, and allow us each our own mistakes. After a spectacularly pitiful high school career, it surprised everyone but myself when I began working as a professional programmer at age seventeen. Why not? My first lessons in empathy were from a little boy who grew up inside a machine. Having spent my elementary childhood learning to speak the language of each person I met, to understand them so that I could communicate with them, it seemed like a natural step to learning the language the computer used, that I may understand it.