What We’re Reading: Symptoms of Being Human
Symptoms of Being Human by Jeff Garvin (Balzar + Bray, February 2016)
*A quick note before I begin this post: I, the reviewer, am cisgender. I can’t speak for the experiences or opinions of any trans or genderqueer people reading this book. I have tried my best to review it speaking only to my experiences as part of the LGBTQ+ community, but it is very possible that I have gotten something wrong. Please feel free to reach out to me if you feel that is the case.
Meet Riley Cavanaugh: punk-rock enthusiast, child of a U.S. Congressman, snarky teenager trying to navigate the maze of being a new kid at a public high school. Riley is also gender-fluid, though that’s not something that anyone else knows. When transferring from an all-Catholic private school, Riley starts an anonymous blog chronicling the questions, triumphs, and struggles of life as a genderqueer teenager. Riley’s world is turned upside down when someone from high school finds the blog and threatens to out—and physically harm—Riley.
This book is Pretty Important. It’s an honest first-person narrative of a genderfluid teenager that doesn’t condescend or pull punches. Riley discusses the experiences of discovering what gender fluidity is, dealing with gender dysphoria, and coping with anxiety and depression. It has the potential to show real life genderqueer teenagers that they are not alone, that their experiences are valid and real. The book also talks openly about the extremely high risks that trans teenagers are at for being (at best) bullied or (at worst) sexually or physically assaulted. While most of the discussions that Riley starts on the blog are fairly basic, they’re still important, particularly for people who are only just beginning to understand or explore sexuality and identity.
One of Garvin’s strengths is character development. From our protagonist (Riley) to our love interest (a trenchcoat-wearing lesbian whose nickname is Bec in honor of her large nose) to our intrepid best friend (a Star Wars geek-turned-jock who is perfectly awkard), there isn’t a single character who isn’t fully fleshed out. While the story centers around Riley, most if not all of the characters have their own plotlines and struggles to overcome. You care about them. You cheer when they arrive and cry when they leave. The plot of this novel is not groundbreaking, but it doesn’t have to be. Symptoms of Being Human isn’t a thriller or a crime novel. It’s part of the quintessential coming-of-age genre whose only goal is to reach out to the millions of teenagers struggling with their own coming-of-age.
By this point, we’ve established that yes, this is a good book. Yes, it was important that this book was written. Yes, you should definitely read it. But I believe that all novels are political, and there are some politics that Symptoms of Being Human represents that I can’t ignore.
If you read a lot of YA like I do, you’re probably familiar with the #OwnVoices campaign, an offshoot of #WeNeedDiverseBooks. The idea behind #OwnVoices is that it’s not enough for the same white, cisgender, straight people (or men, if you want to get specific) to be writing “diverse” characters. If we truly want to revolutionize YA, we need to support the voices of authors of marginalized identities as they tell their own stories. While I think it’s incredible that there is an inclusive, informative book published by one of the “Big Five” with not only a genderfluid character but a genderfluid narrator, it did raise a teeny-tiny red flag that Jeff Garvin is a cisgender, straight man. In many interviews, Garvin praises himself for breaking ground in shedding light onto the transgender experience. For example, when speaking to the Orange County Register, Garvin said, “When I pitched the story to my writing group, nobody had ever heard of gender fluidity. I thought, ‘My god, I’ve got to write this.’ And when I pitched my agent, she said, ‘Is this real, or did you make it up?’”
News flash, Garvin: genderfluid people have been around since, well, people have been around. While he may be one of the first with a mainstream novel to do it, actual trans authors have been writing their own experience for years.
To be fair, Garvin certainly did his research. Riley’s voice comes across as authentic, equal parts angsty teenager and curious young person in the middle of becoming. Occasionally, though, he becomes preachy on LGBTQ+ issues that I don’t think he has any right to support or disclaim. For example—trigger warning here for transphobia, abuse, and suicide—one of Riley’s followers is a trans girl named Andie who is afraid to come out to her ultra-conservative parents. Riley urges her to come out anyway, despite the fact that Andie has stated her father is violent. When Andie comes out, her father brutally beats her to the point of hospitalization. Riley’s blog naturally receives hate mail for this incident, which becomes national news, including the stories of several users who have decided to stay in the closet because it is safe. Riley lashes out, condemning them for their fear. Throughout the book, the message becomes: COME OUT, NO MATTER WHAT. Frankly, it’s a dangerous and infuriating message for someone who has never had to come out to be spreading. While I agree that coming out can be freeing and a mentally healthy decision, it’s also never something I would push someone to do if their life was at risk. Never.
What do you think? How to we balance the need for #OwnVoices with the dire need for representation, no matter who writes it?
Glass Sword by Victoria Aveyard (HarperTeen, February 2016)
Victoria Aveyard burst onto the scene in 2015, with the publication of her first novel, Red Queen. The young adult fantasy novel was praised for filling the void that the completion of both the Hunger Games and Divergent series had left. One part superhero saga, one part dystopian fiction, the series centers around a young girl, Mare Barrow. Mare is a “red,” so named for the color of her blood, a lower-class citizen. The reds are ordinary, their lives only meant for servitude, while the silvers—their aristocratic counterparts—all have superpowers, which make it all-too-easy for them to abuse the reds and stamp down any rebellion.
Glass Sword is the second book in the series. By the time this book begins, Mare has realized she is different: she is red, but she has powers. Mare and Cal, the former Prince who has been framed for murdering his father, are on the run from the new monarchy. It’s Hunger Games meets Game of Thrones meets the Avengers. It’s brilliant. The premise of this book alone makes it impossible to put down; Aveyard keeps the pace clipping along, deftly managing to weave in moments of character growth and loss among intense action scenes. The language is gritty and compelling, overloading the senses. It’s not lit-fic, to be sure, but it still gives the reader plenty of pull quotes, like:
“It isn’t hard to let people die when their deaths give life to something else.”
And:
“We seem weak because we want to.”
The conceit of this book is wonderful unto itself, but what really makes it shine is our heroine, Mare Barrow. At this point in Mare’s journey, she is no longer timid, no longer afraid of either the silvers or her own power. Mare is allowed to be something we rarely see in young adult literature: Mare is ruthless. There are several points in the novel where Mare is given a choice: grand mercy upon those who had previously used or hurt her, or kill them. Mare slaughters them. It’s terrifying. It’s wonderful. Now don’t get me wrong—obviously, I’m not endorsing mass murder. But Mare has the same kind of imperfections that I loved in Katniss. Katniss was allowed to be blunt and unfriendly. Mare is allowed to be merciless, in a way that eventually pushes away those who love her. It’s rare to see a female character who is granted that much power, and whose femininity doesn’t force them into a box of compassion or remorse. There are moments where we see Mare go completely off the deep end, and those are some of the most powerful moments in the book.
Another triumph of Glass Sword is in its romantic development. Aveyard knows her genre. She knows that many young adult series force a love triangle. She uses this to bait the reader into believing not one but multiple love triangles are developing at any point in the series… and then she completely shatters our expectations. Most of Glass Sword felt as if it was building to a romantic relationship between Mare and her best friend (spoiler alert), Kilorn. Throughout the entire build-up, I was irritated, sad that another YA author was forcing a relationship that none of the readers had asked for. And then, the moment arrived: Kilorn confessed his love and… Mare turned him down. Bluntly. Honestly. Beautifully. There’s romance in this novel. There’s so much tension I could scream. And yet I can honestly say that I have no idea who—if anyone—Mare is going to end up with. And I love it.
But of course, not all series are perfect. Though the romance of Glass Sword was unpredictable, I was disheartened by how much of the rest of the novel was. It didn’t just fill the void that Hunger Games left, it emulated the formula it presented almost to a T. Book one: present the circumstances of your dystopia, but keep your character isolated (in Hunger Games, Katniss was in the arena; in Red Queen, Mare spent most of her time trapped in the palace). Book two: break them out of isolation and set up a rebellion. Both series center around bringing down a corrupt government that divides people into a binary of classes. Both series’ heroines become scapegoats of the rebellion—while Katniss is called the Mockingjay, Mare is the Lightning Queen. Both series highlight the faults of the rebellion as well as its triumphs—they warn that victory might not be as clean-cut as it appears.
It’s a formula that works, to be sure. Overall, I did enjoy this book. But by the end, there was a part of me that still felt dissatisfied. I felt as if I had read this book before.
Is dystopia “over”? How do you find newness when your favorite genres seem exhausted?
