A Quick Update

Hello readers! I hope all has been well, and I hope you’ve been having a relaxing and/or productive summer. I’m writing this post to give you a few quick updates!

First and foremost, I completed my one-year postdoctoral fellowship at Bowdoin College in June. I had an absolutely wonderful time researching and teaching there. My students at Bowdoin were exceptionally bright and driven, which made teaching quite an enjoyable experience. It also didn’t hurt that I also taught two fresh and exciting courses during my time there: a course on Young Adult Speculative Fiction and another course on Queer Young Adult Literature. My time at Bowdoin was a fabulous yet realistic introduction into the world of academia and higher education. I not only got to design my own dream courses, but I also participated in faculty meetings and extracurricular events with students, held regular office hours, and engaged in informal mentorship with students. This fellowship pushed me to realize how hectic, stressful, and busy the life of a professor truly is. After leaving Bowdoin, I know that I’m better prepared for the demands, pleasures, and responsibilities of an academic career. As excited as I am for a job in academia, I’m no longer approaching it with the naiveté that I had fresh out of graduate school.

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“A Day in the Life of a Postdoc.” Subtract the cigarettes and double the amount of coffee, and you have a perfect representation of how I felt during the days that I was grading, holding office hours, revising an article, applying for jobs, working on a conference paper, and debating whether I wanted to cook or order takeout. The struggle is real. 

For those of you who are interested, I obtained this postdoc by submitting an application to the Consortium for Faculty Diversity Fellowship, which offers minority scholars (and scholars who incorporate issues of diversity into their teaching) the opportunity to research and teach at various liberal arts colleges in the U.S. Feel free to check out their website, and I highly encourage you to apply for this fellowship if you fit the criteria!

On another note, I’m thrilled to announce that I have officially joined the Department of English and Comparative Literature at San Diego State University (SDSU) as an Assistant Professor of Children’s and Young Adult Literature. To say that I’m excited about this is an understatement! SDSU’s English and Comparative Literature Department has a renowned and robust children’s and young adult literature program, and has housed exceptional faculty in the field. I’m so happy to join the SDSU family, and I’m even happier that I don’t have to deal with the nightmare that is the academic job market this year.

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This was pretty much my reaction to the job offer from SDSU!

I have so many great things planned for my first year at SDSU. I’m going to teach two upper-level undergraduate courses for English majors: Adolescence in Literature (Theme: Undoing Adolescence) and Queer Narratives and Genres (Theme: In Search of Queer Forms). Over the next couple of weeks, I will share my syllabi for both of these courses on this blog, although you can already find them on my academia.edu page. In addition to teaching these courses, I will be working on a couple of book projects. I hope to finish revising my dissertation into a book manuscript by May 2018, and in the meantime, I will also be developing book proposals for various publishers. I am also in the midst of co-editing a volume focused on intersectional approaches to space and place in film and media with Pamela Robertson Wojcik and Paula Massood, so keep your eyes peeled for more updates on this project. Last but not least, I’m in the early stages of planning a collaborative project with another scholar of queer young adult literature. I can’t share many details about this project yet, but for now, I’ll say that I am incredibly excited about it even though we’re just in the initial planning phase.

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Yes, I know that this year is going to be excruciatingly busy, but I am so, so, so very excited about the hustle that lies ahead! *cue celebratory dance*

I’m absolutely loving San Diego, and I can see myself being very happy in this city. Anyway, I gotta get going, but stay tuned for upcoming blog posts that will showcase the syllabi that I’ve designed for the courses that I’m teaching this upcoming semester. And as always, thanks for reading!

Course Syllabus: Queer Young Adult Literature

Hello readers! So, I’m finally teaching one of my dream courses, and it’s one that I’ve been anxious to teach for quite some time! Click here to access the syllabus that I’ve designed for an intermediate seminar that I’m currently teaching at Bowdoin College. The seminar is entitled Queer Young Adult Literature, and it is currently offered under Bowdoin’s English Department and the Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies program.  The course description is as follows:

How do literary texts communicate ideas that are supposed to be unspeakable, especially to a younger audience? In this course, we will explore contemporary young adult literature that represents the experiences of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer adolescents. We will not only scrutinize the complex relationship that exists between narrative, sexuality, gender, and audience, but we will also determine how certain genres and narrative modes enable or limit representations of queerness. Drawing from temporal and affective approaches to queer studies, we will examine the genre’s attempt to encapsulate an enduring change in terms of how queer adolescence is (or can be) represented, perceived, and experienced.

This course is my opportunity to teach and discuss ideas that I’ve developed while writing my dissertation, especially when it comes to the analysis of youth literature with queer content using the critical lenses of queer, affect, and narrative theories. Although this course has various goals and objectives, there are three main things that I want students to explore throughout the course:

  1. The way in which young adult novels make use of non-conventional narrative forms and structures in their explorations of queer content, and the formalistic/structural strategies implemented by queer youth narratives.
  2. The ways in which queer young adult literature complicates or reaffirms ideas regarding queer childhood and queer adolescence.
  3. The affective and political potential of the young adult genre, and the ways in which youth literature uses emotion to help its readership develop historical awareness and resilience towards violence and queerphobia.

In all honesty, this was one of the most difficult courses that I’ve ever designed, particularly since I had to limit the amount of novels that students and I would read and discuss throughout the semester. There were various criteria that I considered when making the final text selection. First and foremost, I wanted the course novels to reflect the spectrum of sexual and gender identities (i.e. lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, etc.). Secondly, I wanted to include novels that represent the intersection between gender, sexuality and race, and that are written by authors of color–an issue, especially since youth literature with queer content is notorious for sidelining the experiences of queer characters of color (this has been changing, but ever so slowly). Last but not least, I wanted to include novels that implemented innovations of structure, form, and narrative mode, which wasn’t difficult to find given the propensity for queer narratives to implement nonlinear narratives and postmodern aesthetic techniques.

When you look at the course schedule that is located in the final two pages of the syllabus, you’ll notice that each of the course novels is paired with an important piece of theory or criticism focused on affective, temporal, and age studies approaches to queer theory. It is my hope that these difficult, theoretical texts will provide students with the means to conduct both reparative and paranoid readings of the young adult novels that I’ve selected. Furthermore, I hope that these difficult texts will help illuminate the intricacies and complexities of the young adult genre–a genre that is oftentimes viewed as simplistic and not worthy of critical attention.

As always, I appreciate any and all feedback! If you were to design a course on queer young adult literature, what novels would you include? What readings would you pair with your selected novels? What issues or topics would you focus on? If you have designed or taught a course on queer young adult literature, I would love for you to share your syllabus in the comments section below.

Just in case you missed the link above, you can access my syllabus by clicking here. I really hope you enjoy it!

CFP: Queer Futurities in Children’s and Young Adult Literature

Hi readers! I’m organizing/chairing a session at the MLA conference in New York City in January 2018. This is a non-guaranteed session that is sponsored by the Children’s and Young Adult Literature Forum. The call for papers is posted is below. Feel free to share this CFP widely to kidlit and queer studies scholars! ¡Gracias!

Queer Futurities in Children’s and Young Adult Literature

Although we have recently seen the implementation of institutional changes that have altered the legal and socioeconomic status of queer people in the United States (i.e. United States v. Windsor in 2013 and Obergefell v. Hodges in 2015), queer individuals continue to encounter discrimination, violence, and death based on their gender and/or sexual orientation. The stark rise in murders of trans people of color and the 2016 Orlando nightclub shooting are just a few of the events that have disrupted the misguided sense of utopia instilled by institutional change, and have brought into question whether it is possible for queerness to link to notions of futurity.

Considering this climate of violence and prejudice, what is the role of queer futurity in contemporary children’s and young adult literature, especially since many texts in these genres are written with a utopic, future-oriented sensibility? How does youth literature with queer themes frame and enable readings of the future? Are these future-oriented texts politically and affectively viable, or are they normative and misguided in their approach? I seek papers that examine how recent children’s and young adult texts approach, problematize, or justify the link between queerness and futurity.

Proposed papers may approach this linkage through various approaches, including but not limited to: queer, narrative, temporal, and affective methodologies. This panel seeks to both nuance and complicate how queer children’s and young adult texts present different stakes in terms of their alignment towards or against futurity. Furthermore, papers should ideally think through the ways in which children’s and young adult literature either sustain or complicate approaches to queer futurities and temporalities prominent in the field of queer theory/studies (i.e. Muñoz, Ahmed, Edelman, Freeman, Halberstam, etc.). Submissions that include intersectional approaches towards queerness and futurity in youth literature are particularly welcome.

This is a non-guaranteed session for the 2018 MLA Convention in New York City sponsored by the Children’s and Young Adult Literature Forum. Please send 500-word proposals (including a working bibliography) to Angel Matos at amatos@bowdoin.edu by Wednesday, March 1. Session participants must be current members of MLA as of April 7, 2017.

Course Syllabus: Young Adult Speculative Fiction

Hello readers! As promised, here is the syllabus for a seminar that I’m currently teaching at Bowdoin College. The seminar is entitled (Im)Possible Lives: Young Adult Speculative Fiction, and it is currently offered under Bowdoin’s English Department and the Gender, Sexuality, and Women’s Studies program. The course description is as follows:

How do wizards, monsters, cyborgs, and dystopias shed light on precarious issues such as sexism, homophobia, racism, poverty, and illness? This seminar examines representations of identity and difference in young adult speculative fiction—texts created for younger audiences that include elements from genres such as fantasy, horror, science fiction, and magical realism. Students not only analyze the approaches that writers implement to construct hypothetical settings and characters, but also examine how speculative young adult novels depict different possibilities for existing and mattering in the world.

There are many goals that I have for this course. For the most part, I want students to realize the ways in which the content and structure of contemporary YA speculative fiction is symptomatic of many of the political, environmental, and sociopolitical crises that we face today in American society. In literature, film, and media, many have been exploring the issue of who matters, or who doesn’t matter. Particularly in social media discourse, we have seen a rise in attitudes such as homophobia, xenophobia, transphobia, sexism, elitism, and so on and so on. We are also developing greater awareness of the violence experienced by people of color, LGBTQ+ communities, and immigrants. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for us to ignore violence (and violent discourse), and recent events have been pushing many of us to question the value and future of human life. Through these acts of hate and violence, however, many of us are recognizing the need for community, highlighting the importance of self-care, and developing a desire for safer, more collective ways of being and knowing.

I think that YA speculative fiction offers readers a unique opportunity to think through the aforementioned precarious issues, and I believe works in this genre will push my students and I to ask difficult questions and explore complex issues. Teaching this seminar is not going to be easy. It will involve difficult and tedious emotional and intellectual labor. But I think that my students and I will grow both as people and thinkers by the time the semester is through.

Part of what I find valuable about works categorized as YA speculative fiction is that they are often crafted with a Utopian bent, and they often envision alternatives to the suffocating and violent conditions of the present. Books in this genre are often exercises in positive affect, and they push readers to imagine, desire, and work for better ways of living in the world. Students and I will explore both the perks and the pitfalls of the ethical frameworks discussed in a selection of YA speculative novels that overtly include themes of gender, sexuality, race, and class. It is my hope that through this seminar, my students will not only learn more about themselves and their place in society, but they will also recognize the value and importance of narratives that deviate from normative paradigms. Furthermore, I hope that students will be able to recognize and discuss current and emerging trends in the genre of YA speculative fiction, especially the genre’s increasing penchant for non-traditional narrative forms and genre-blending.

Just in case you missed the link above, you can access my course syllabus by clicking here. I hope you enjoy it!

I Survived Graduate School!

Hi readers! It’s been too long since I’ve posted something on this website! I feel a little guilty for not uploading content regularly this past year, but life sometimes gets in the way of keeping up with side projects. However, even though this past year has been excruciatingly busy, it has also been one of the most rewarding years of my academic career.

One of the most exciting things to happen this year only occurred about three weeks ago: I successfully defended my dissertation and officially became Dr. Matos! This is the primary reason I haven’t been updating this website. Writing the dissertation was an interesting journey, and while it feels immensely satisfying to have completed the project, I wasn’t quite ready for the emotional and intellectual weight of writing a 300-page book. When I first began my project, I had envisioned a more comparative study in which I established the parallels between an archive of queer literature written for adult audiences, and an archive of queer literature written for adolescent readers. However, the project transformed into an in-depth analysis of young adult queer literature, focusing on the narrative and affective dimensions of this genre in works published in the twenty-first century. This was the first thing that I was not prepared for: the dissertation is not a stable project. The more you write, the more the project changes. Part of this has to do with the fact that you’re constantly learning new things as you read and write. You could have two chapters written, and suddenly you come up with an idea that alters the scope of your entire project (this is both thrilling and terrifying).

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This was basically my reaction to successfully defending my dissertation. This plus tears. Many, many tears.

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After years of research and writing, I completed the final draft of my project, which I decided to title Feeling Infinite: Affect, Genre, and Narrative in Young Adult Queer Literature (a nod to one of my favorite young adult novels of all time, Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower). This project explores how young adult queer novels written in the twenty-first century conciliate the tension that exists between the negative affect commonly associated with the queer literary archive, and the positive affect that readers often associate with young adult literature. In dealing with this tension, I also explore the ways in which the positive affect of young adult literature could lead to innovative and fresh ways of thinking about queer literature and culture. Rather than approaching young adult fiction as a straightforward and simplistic genre, one of my aims was to show the extent to which young adult queer texts can be multi-layered, rich, and complex—and how through this complexity, these novels are able to represent the association between positive affect and queerness in unprecedented ways.

Drawing from research in young adult literature and queer literature, and from queer theory, affect theory, and narratology, I analyzed, deconstructed, and conducted reparative readings of novels ranging from more realistic, historically based genres to more fantastical, speculative genres, including the young adult historical novel, contemporary realism, magical realism, and dystopian literature. Each chapter in my investigation can be approached as a case study, in which I explore the particular ways in which a subgenre of young adult queer literature navigates the tension between queer negativity and the positive affect of young adult literature, and the ways in which positive affect provides readers with the tools to conduct a reparative reading that ameliorates the tension between a damaged queer past, a still damaged present, and a distant yet imaginable utopic future.

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As the cliché goes: “The best dissertation is a done dissertation.”

Besides becoming a doctor, something else incredibly exciting happened: I GOT A POSTDOCTORAL FELLOWSHIP! As of July 2016, I will officially be a Consortium for Faculty Diversity Postdoctoral Fellow at Bowdoin College (Maine, U.S.A.). I can’t even begin to express how excited I am about this opportunity. While at Bowdoin, I will work on turning my dissertation into a book manuscript, and I’ll also teach some really fun and exciting courses. This fall, for instance, I’m teaching a first-year seminar on young adult speculative fiction entitled (Im)Possible Lives, where students and I will determine how authors construct hypothetical settings, and even more important, how authors use speculative fiction as a way of exploring notions of life, identity, and livability (I will upload a version of my syllabus in July or August). I absolutely fell in love with Bowdoin during my campus interview. The college is beautiful, my future colleagues in the English department were incredibly warm and intelligent, and (cue the sappy music) I think I will grow a lot as a person and as a scholar during my time there.

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I’m pretty stoked about joining the Bowdoin polar bears next semester!

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It was not easy applying to countless jobs on top of trying to finish my dissertation. Things ended up working out in the end, but the levels of stress and panic that I have experienced over the past year were unprecedented. Part of this has to do with the uncertainty of it all, and the fact that obtaining a job in academia mostly comes down to luck. As a graduate student, you try your best to professionalize and turn into a full-fledged scholar who develops important and original research, and who possesses the ability to disseminate this knowledge via teaching and academic writing. However, the effort that you put into research, teaching, and professionalization doesn’t always lead to a job in academia. I’ve heard horror stories of brilliant scholars who were in the job market for eight years before landing a tenure-track job. You could be an amazing and groundbreaking scholar, but landing a job depends on so many factors that are out of your control: department need, university politics, chemistry with other faculty members, and the viability of the market, among others. Applying to jobs was just like applying to graduate school all over again: a shot in the dark.

In the midst of job applications and chapter revisions, it became incredibly difficult to sleep, I would sometimes go through bouts of depression, and at times, I went through terrible periods of writer’s block. Even after having defended the dissertation, I still have many vivid dreams about failure. Part of the reason I experienced these things has to do with the nature of what I study. By immersing myself into queer literature and queer studies, I had to read a lot about the devastating effects of AIDS in the mid-1980s, anti-gay violence, suicide, and other events that are anything but cheery. This, in combination with the pressures of graduate school, was not a very productive combination (to say the least). It’s so difficult to realize that something that you love usually possesses the potential to hurt you, or to make life tougher than it already is.

I survived graduate school.  I won’t lie: it was rough, and I wish I were somehow more prepared for the psychological effects of graduate study. I’m glad, however, that people are starting to have conversations about these psychological effects. I remember people telling me: “why are you letting books affect you this way?” Every time, I couldn’t help but think: books are my world. Books were and continue to be pivotal in shaping who I am, and part of the reason I did my Ph.D. in English was because I believe, and know, that books possess the potential to change people, and to cultivate new and exciting ideas. This helped to push me through graduate school. There were also other things that helped me push through: a generous and caring dissertation committee, a supportive network of friends, family, and colleagues, hobbies and activities that are not related in any way to my work, and learning how to talk about my fears and anxieties (and when to ignore them).

Things will still be busy next year, but unlike before, I feel more prepared for what’s to come. That being said, I plan on being more active on this website in the future. I hope to share more books reviews and analyses (there have been SO MANY amazing books published this last year) and I also hope to share more syllabi and class activities.

I wasn’t able to walk for graduation this May because I defended my dissertation during the last week of April (May graduates were supposed to defend during the first couple weeks of April in order to walk). However, I’m looking forward to returning to Notre Dame in May 2017 in order to wear a fancy robe and finalize my strange, stressful, but utterly delightful time in graduate school. It has been one hell of a ride, and I’m excited about the bigger, faster, scarier, more thrilling rides that are yet to come.

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The Intersection of Deaf and Gay Identity in Young Adult Literature

I’m thrilled to announce the publication in my essay “Without a word or sound”: Enmeshing Deaf and Gay Identity in Young Adult Literature.
This essay is found in an critical volume edited by Jacob Stratman entitled Lessons in Disability: Essays on Teaching with Young Adult Literature, published by McFarland Press (November 2015).

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Front cover of Lessons in Disability (2015)

Although not obvious at first, queer studies and Deaf/disability studies share a solid theoretical foundation. In this essay, I discuss how two young adult novels–Andrew Smith’s Stick and Brian Sloan’s A Really Nice Prom Mess–construct gayness and deafness, focusing on how content and/or form pushes one to approach deaf and gay identity in unprecedented ways.

I argue that the concurrent literary exploration of deafness and queerness allows these works to seek alternative models of kinship that are not reliant on privileged and normative practices. By representing events in which (spoken) language and heternormativity are made strange, these young adult novels depict imagined worlds that can be read as anti-hierarchical, non-neutral, and queer. By assisting readers in considering the strangeness of normativity, these novels provide a venue where comfort and optimism triumph in moments of anguish, and where solutions are provided to counteract the pressures of normativity. This essay, ultimately, is intended to serve as a model for how poststructuralist readings can aid readers and scholars in performing reparative critiques of young adult novels with disabled and/or queer characters.

Further complicating the stakes of my readings, the young adult novels that I scrutinize depict deafness as a spectrum; these novels portray characters that blur the lines between the deaf and the hearing. Stick and Prom Mess depict characters that cannot hear through one of their ears due to either a birth defect or accident. One can situate these characters on the fringes of the constructed abled/disabled binary, thus challenging the legitimacy and usefulness of this dichotomy in the first place. These partially deaf characters will allow me to explore the contours of subjugated identities, allowing me to develop an understanding of how hierarchy and power play a role in the imagined lives of teens that are not-quite-abled, and concurrently not-quite-disabled.

I hope you enjoy this essay! If you have any comments or questions about it, I will gladly address them in this post. You can read a manuscript excerpt of my essay by clicking here. You can also purchase a copy of the book here.

Featured image courtesy of Bert Heymans. Click here for the image file.

Developing a Course on Metafictional Young Adult Literature

During the past couple of weeks, I’ve been working on developing various literature courses, including a course on the metafictional turn in contemporary young adult literature. As of now, I have entitled the course Book-Ception: The Metafictional Turn in Young Adult Literature. For those of you who are confused about the title, -Ception is a suffix (slang) popularized by the 2010 film Inception, and it is usually attached to a noun in order to indicate that this noun is multifaceted, multi-layered, or contains parallel objects embedded within it (i.e. a dream within a dream, a text within a text, a play within a play, and so on, and so on).

I’ve noticed how many young adult novels published during the last fifteen years have demonstrated an increased interest in exploring matters of form, readership, authorship, and literariness. Some YA novels published during the last five years in particular have rivaled some novels published during the peak of postmodernity in terms of their exploration of the nature and purpose of narrative, the relationship between fiction and reality, and the intimate connection between text and audience.

I thought it would be interesting to develop a course in which students explore how metafictional elements and metanarratives affect how we interpret, analyze, and understand the imagined lives of teenagers in contemporary fiction. This course, ideally, will attract students interested in young adult literature, students interested in the literary remnants of the postmodern movement in contemporary fiction, and students interested in exploring the role of narratology in the creation, distribution, and consumption of literature.

The description for this course is as follows:

What do young adult novels have to say about the status of literature and narrative in contemporary society? Can a book be self-aware of its existence as a literary object? Can young adult novels challenge or thwart the relationship between a reader and a text? Recently, novels written for adolescents have been interested in addressing these questions—thus leading to a boom in young adult metafiction: books that explore the nature and function of literature, that question the parallels between reality and fiction, and that overtly scrutinize the relationship between audience and text. In this course, we will investigate how contemporary young adult novels use metafictional techniques in order to deliberate the importance and value of literature, narrative, and language in the imagined lives of teenagers. Furthermore, we will assess the role of metanarrative and form in disrupting the divide between “low” and “high” literature. We will read novels written by authors such as Lemony Snicket, John Green, and Andrew Smith.

I wanted to select texts from different genres, including realism, fantasy, and speculative/science fiction. The novels that I selected for this course also make use of different metafictional and metanarrative techniques. Cornelia Funke’s Inkheart, for instance, explores the possibility of bringing words to life through literary consumption, and the overall role of books in the development of one’s imagination. Others such as Andrew Smith’s Winger and Patrick Ness’ More Than This explore the role of narrative and storytelling in helping one cope with traumatic and unprecedented events. Novels such as John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars explore notions such as the ‘death of the author,’ narrative endings, and the imagined lives of literary characters.

Here is the current version of the syllabus that I’ve developed:

What do you think of this course? Do you have any comments or suggestions regarding the course’s content or design? Are there any other texts that you would recommend for this course? Any and all feedback will be great appreciated!

My article on The Perks of Being a Wallflower is now available online!

I’m pleased to announce that my article entitled “Writing through Growth, Growth through Writing: The Perks of Being a Wallflower and the Narrative of Development” can now be found in The ALAN Review‘s digital archives. Here is a brief abstract of the article, which won the Nilsen-Donelson award for best article published during the volume year:

This paper calls attention to the issue of social and personal development in Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower, focusing on how the novel appropriates and transmutes the conventions of the formation novel, formally known as the Bildungsroman. Although the novel is written in an epistolary fashion, focusing on a series of letters sent to an undisclosed recipient, I argue that there is much value in approaching the text as a formation novel for it highlights the evolving nature of the Bildungsroman genre. The overarching themes of Charlie’s musings are focused on creating a social space in which the protagonist can record, evaluate, and deliberate his own position within his social context. These epistles also provide clarification of the pains and tribulations of achieving reconciliation between personal desire and social demand. Through a close-reading of the novel, I point out the role of writing in Charlie’s personal development, and how it influences and shapes his perspective of the world.

Click here for the PDF version of the article:

https://scholar.lib.vt.edu/ejournals/ALAN/v40n3/pdf/matos.pdf

Click here for the HTML version of the article:

https://scholar.lib.vt.edu/ejournals/ALAN/v40n3/matos.html

Trading Spaces: Gay Markers of Urbanity and NBC’s Will & Grace

In her discussion on “Queer in the Great City,” Julie Abraham exemplifies the ontological associations that exist between homosexuality and urbanity. Abraham argues that queer people are culturally approached as signifiers that represent the differences between urban and rural spaces, and more specifically, she claims that their very presence “marks a place as properly urban” (290). Abraham attests that the transition of “gays from urban saviors to urban signs” (293) is due not only to the aforementioned ontological association, but also to the reinvention of the city “as a site of noneconomic values” (293) and the increasing linkage between gayness and consumption. Abraham points out that flânerie, sex, institutions and domestic life are ways (at least in fiction) in which it is possible to frustrate homosexuality as an urban place marker—though she does not elaborate on how this is accomplished.

Novelists still write about gay and lesbian lives in those cities, as do University of Chicago sociologists. Offering elaborate portraits of queer urbanity, these works resist the reduction of homosexuals to urban place markers, whether their subjects are flânerie, as in Samuel Delany’s Time Square Red, Times Square Blue or Edmund White’s The Flâneur (2001); sex, as in Edward O. Laumann and his colleagues’ Chicago study The Sexual Organization of the City (2004); politics and institutions, as in Davina Cooper’s Sexing the City (1994), on London and Manchester, and Moira Rachel Kenney’s Mapping Gay L.A. (2001); or marriage and domestic life, as in Armistead Maupin’s return to his tales of San Francisco with Michael Tolliver Lives (2007). (Abraham 297-298)

Furthermore, she does not explore how self-awareness of one’s status as a queer marker or urbanity allows gays to recover their standing as political actors.  Through this discussion, I hope to add richness to Abraham’s phenomenal discussion on gay cities by exploring further alternatives for refusing homosexuality as a signifier of urbanity, particularly as depicted in an episode of Will & Grace.

In the Will & Grace episode entitled “Sour Balls,” Jack and Will (two of the show’s main gay characters) consider purchasing a house in Middleborough, New York, which Jack describes as the city’s “next big hot gay getaway.” While visiting the house, they soon realize that Jack confused Middleborough, NY with Middleborough, New Hampshire, and they decide to leave without buying it. As they attempt to leave the house, they soon become surrounded by neighbors—a group of oddball characters that celebrate the possibility of gay men moving into the area because “When the gays come, the property values shoot up. And they fill the place with cute restaurants and adorable shops.”

The citizens of Middleborough, NY, attempt to stop the markers of urbanity (Jack and Will) from leaving their neighborhood.

Jack and Will, two gay men who come from the urban metropolis of Manhattan, are viewed by the townsfolk as what Abraham would call “icons of an authentic urbanity” (289). The townsfolk believe that the presence of gay men would stimulate “the revival of, an authentic (that is, modern) urbanism” (Abraham 290) in a town desperately in need of economic and social development. After Jack and Will mention that they have no plans of purchasing the house, the neighbors respond by stating that “some people might not take kindly to gays moving out of the neighborhood.”

The neighborhood tries to prevent Will and Jack from escaping the house. The house is surrounded by people throwing “gay” foods such as quiche, banana bread, and jam through the house’s window. The house is also surrounded by a high school marching band playing a perpetual loop of “We Are Family,” and an angry mob of townsfolk holding scented candles in lieu of torches. This scene is illuminating when approached through the lens of Abraham’s discussion, for there is an entire community of people who attempt to trap two gay men in a house through the use of material signifiers of urban homosexuality. The neighborhood’s desire for what Abraham calls the “romance” of the gay community is so strong that those who desire the queer signifiers become the signifiers themselves.

As Jack and Will become increasingly horrified at the coercion of the townsfolk, Will decides to intervene by stating that the neighbors “can fix up this town and make it fabulous all on [their] own!” Will embodies a “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” persona and lures the neighbors blocking the front door into the bathroom, in order to show them how he “upgraded [it] in half an hour.” Once the neighborly “guards” enter the bathroom, Will and Jack lock the door and make their escape. Thus, Will and Jack avoid their positionality as markers of urbanity and modernity by usurping the very characteristics that attempted to define them as such.

“Sour Balls” depicts an instance in which gay men recognize how they are being viewed as markers of gay urbanity, and how they thwart this signification by performing the very acts that are expected from them. It is interesting to observe how popular culture represents and challenges the issue of gays as desirable amenities—and how these representations offer concrete, albeit exaggerated, solutions for breaking this queer and urban chain of signification.

Works Cited

Abraham, Julie. “Queer in the Great City.” Metropolitan Lovers: The Homosexuality of Cities. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2010. Print.

“Sour Balls.” Will  Grace: Season Seven. Writ. Laura Kightlinger. Dir. James Burrows. NBC, 2007. DVD.

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Cleveland Rainbow Terminal Tower by Koji Kawano.

We Are the Stories We Tell: Patrick Ness’ [More Than This]

(Major spoilers ahead. You’ve been warned!)

Front cover of Patrick Ness' More Than This

Front cover of Patrick Ness’ More Than This (2013)

“People see stories everywhere,” Regine says. “That’s what my father used to say. We take random events and we put them together in a pattern so we can comfort ourselves with a story, no matter how much it obviously isn’t true.” She glances back at Seth. “We have to lie to ourselves to live. Otherwise, we’d go crazy.” (Ness 217)

The notions of storytelling and narrative are central to Patrick Ness’ 2013 young adult novel entitled More Than This. As can be seen in the quote above, Regine, an important character in the novel, demonstrates awareness of the cognitive function of narrative: it is a method of organizing the world to make sense of it and to interpret it. In other words, it is an ordering or sequencing of events that conveys a particular set of ideas, beliefs, or functions. Through the implementation of metafictional elements and characters who are aware of the nature of storytelling and narration, Ness’ novel brilliantly subverts many of the grand narratives present in young adult literature, and fiction in general.

More Than This is a young adult novel that is difficult to describe. On one hand, it is a philosophical exploration of narrative, the afterlife, the nature of storytelling, and reality. On the other hand, it is a young adult dystopian novel that explores topics such as death, sexuality, family, and friendship. More than a novel, Ness’ work is an exhilarating narrative experiment: through the exploration of adolescence in a post-apocalyptic context, Ness pushes us to question the value of stories in our lives, regardless of whether said stories are real or fabricated.

In the novel’s introduction, Ness challenges the expectations that we have of narratives by beginning the story in an unexpected fashion. Although death is traditionally viewed as the endpoint of a narrative, it marks the beginning of the story being told in More Than This. The novel opens with Seth, the protagonist, committing suicide by drowning himself at sea. He immerses himself into violent and cold waters found in the Pacific Northwest area of the United States, and he is thrashed against some unforgiving rocks by the relentless waves:

The impact is just behind his left ear. It fractures his skull, splintering it into his brain, the force of it also crushing his third and fourth vertebrae, severing both his cerebral artery and his spinal cord, an injury from which there is no return, no recovery. No chance.

He dies. (Ness 3)

The introduction of the novel is thus a reversal of the usual teleology that we have come to expect in traditional narratives (particularly young adult narratives) which focus on the linear development or the transition of a protagonist from point A to point Z. Like most young adult novels, More Than This does focus on transition–but said transition is triggered through death rather than adolescence.

After killing himself, Seth awakens in a perverse version of his childhood home in England. Although Seth recognizes this home, he notices dramatic differences between the place that he knew and its current condition: thick ashen dust has covered nearly every surface, and everything seems abandoned and mistreated–as if nobody has lived in the house for decades. Seth soon realizes that he is alone in this strange place, and he comes to the conclusion that he is living in “A hell built exactly for him” (20).

What is fascinating about More Than This is its ambiguity. At first we are led to believe Seth’s interpretation of his surroundings as a personal hell, but as the novel develops, we receive conflicting events and pieces of information that make it difficult to fully understand and know the setting of the novel. Various theories develop as the narrative progresses. Although Seth believes that he is in hell, paying consequences for actions he committed in life, the narrative takes a dystopic, post-apocalyptic turn. It is revealed that Seth is now living in the “real” world, and that the world that he used to live in was merely a virtual (online) space that society created to escape the pressures of living in a decaying and fractured world (this is actually a very complicated part of the story that’s difficult to summarize, so bear with me).

The novel, however, complicates the reader’s ability to fully believe this dystopian narrative. Seth understands that the presence of a digital alternate reality does explain many things about the “real” world, but he also admits that this explanation is full of gaps. Further complicating Seth’s ability to trust in the “real” post-apocalyptic world are the inexplicable coincidences that he encounters regularly: loose ends tie a little too nicely, Seth is always rescued from danger at the last possible moment, and things sometimes materialize when he thinks about them. His distrust in his current reality begins to peak when he encounters two other people, Regine and Tomasz, who rescue him right before he is attacked by an ominous, Death-like presence known as the Driver, who travels around in a black van: “Something’s still not right about this. These two just happened  to be there when he was running toward the hill, just happened to stop him before he made contact with the black van, just happened  to find  the perfect place to hide from the Driver?” (183, emphasis in original).

Because of the factors mentioned above, Seth begins to believe that what he is experiencing is simply a “story that he’s telling himself” (250)–and this is where the novel becomes increasingly interesting from a (meta)fictional perspective. The novel’s metafictional aspects are highlighted earlier in the novel, when Seth encounters a book that he read as a child. While re-reading this novel, he reflects on the nature of books, and how these objects are able to contain a reality within their pages: “A book, he thinks at one point, rubbing his eyes, tired from so much focused reading. It’s a world all on its owntoo. He looks at the cover again. […] A world made of words, Seth thinks, where you live for a while (135, emphasis in original). Although Ness uses italics to mark thoughts that are substantiated in Seth’s mind, one cannot help but notice how these italics inevitably highlight key phrases and ideas. These italicized words bring many thoughts to mind:

  1. Seth is a protagonist who literally lives in a world made of words.
  2. Through reading More Than This, we as readers end up living in a world made of words for a while.
  3. It is possible that Seth’s current reality is nothing more than a world made of words.

The possibility of Seth’s reality being a story that he is telling himself becomes even more of a possibility towards the end of the novel, where he makes predictions based on past narratives that he’s encountered before. The most jarring of these predictions occurs after Seth, Regine, and Tomasz first destroy the Driver:

The Driver seems clearly dead, but Seth notices how slowly they’re all moving, as if at any second they expect it to surge back to life and attack them.

That’s what would happen if this were a story, Seth thinks. The villain who wouldn’t stay dead. The one who has to be stopped over and over again. That’s what would happen if this were all just my mind trying to tell me something. (407, emphasis in original)

As can be expected, the villain does not stay dead. Towards the novel’s conclusion, the Driver appears out of nowhere to stop the characters from re-entering the virtual world with their current knowledge of the “real” world. After defeating the Driver, once again, Seth, Regine, and Tomasz question whether the reality they are currently experiencing is no different from the virtual world that they managed to escape–whether they are all, in due course, a figment of Seth’s imagination. This is especially true after they witness Seth’s ability to predict the outcome of events that they face. The novel, however, refuses to provide readers with any answers to this question, and instead embraces ambiguity as an alternative to knowing:

He’s uncertain what’s going to happen next.

But he is certain that that’s actually the point.

If this is all a story, then that’s what the story means.

If it isn’t a story, then the exact same is true. (471, emphasis in original)

More Than This is thus a testament to the power of fiction and storytelling. Seth is the story that is told… we all are the stories that we tell. Regardless of whether said stories are true or fictional, they still have the power to produce meaning, to produce knowledge, and to produce selves. The narrative refuses to provide readers with direct answers, but this refusal, in due course, gives us the power to make what we want out of the story. We do not know if Seth is experiencing the “real,” whether he is living a narrative that his mind created to cope with his suicide, or whether he is simply a character lost within a sequence of random events. But this novel is precisely about not being able to know–and how by not knowing, we are able to stitch together an infinite amount of patterns and events to comfort ourselves, to orient ourselves, and find ourselves.

This post does not do justice to the philosophical richness, complexity, and brilliance of Ness’ work. More Than This also contains illuminating discussions on notions such as queerness, sexuality, loss, and relationships. Seth is also one of the most complex gay characters that I’ve encountered in young adult fiction (yes, the protagonist is gay, and his sexuality is a major component of the narrative). I wholeheartedly concur with John Green’s assessment of this novel: “Just read it.”

You can purchase a copy of More Than This by clicking here.

Work Cited

Ness, Patrick. More Than This. Berryville: Candlewick Press, 2013. Print (paperback edition)

Cover/featured image by Diane Yuri. Original version cropped and flipped.