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!

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).


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


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.


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.


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


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.



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!

Escaping the Labyrinth: Suffering in YA Fiction and the Case of John Green’s [Looking for Alaska]

Front cover of John Green's Looking for Alaska (2005)

Front cover of John Green’s Looking for Alaska (2005)


How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering? –A.Y.

– John Green, Looking for Alaska (p. 158)

What is the role of suffering in young adult literature? I’ve been obsessed with answering this question since one of my dissertation committee members asked me it a couple of weeks ago. My desire to answer this question has further increased as I continue to teach a course on young adult fiction this semester. I am constantly thinking about what defines this genre of literature, especially when considering that the line between literature written for adults and young adults is so thin. Part of this has to do with the ambiguity of what a young adult is, but for the most part, the trouble in defining young adult literature is found in the plasticity of the genre itself.

Young adult literature has become an umbrella term for an ever-expanding collective of novels, dealing with everything from the real, the everyday, the fantastical, the impossible, the painful, and the imaginary. Since the scope of young adult literature is so embracing, however, it becomes increasingly difficult to establish parameters for what it can or cannot be. Does a YA novel simply require a teenage protagonist in order for it to be categorized as such? An adolescent protagonist is definitely a must–but is there a further narrative strand that binds this collective of novels together? Perhaps an exploration of suffering in these novels can provide some answers.

I’ll be the first to admit that suffering is perhaps a universal element of most, if not all novels. After all, most events that a protagonists face are in some way driven by dissatisfaction or displeasure. However, it seems that most young adult novels go at great lengths to highlight the role of suffering in aiding the development of a character over a particular span of time. In the course that I’m currently teaching, we’ve read novels such as J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, Katherine Paterson’s Bridge to Terabithia, and Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Arguably, all of these novels center wholeheartedly on a protagonist’s suffering. Holden Caulfield is tormented by phoniness and hypocrisy–including his own. Jess copes with the death of his best friend, Leslie. Charlie is distressed by his obsession for observation and his struggle to become an active participant. This week, as we begin our discussion of John Green’s Looking for Alaska, the notion of suffering has become front and center due to the novel’s explicit and reiterative questioning of the nature of torment and dissatisfaction in the lives of contemporary teenagers.

In a nutshell, the novel centers on a year in the life of Miles Halter (a.k.a. “Pudge”), a resident of Florida who moves to a boarding school in Alabama during his junior year to seek a “Great Perhaps” (5). It is during this year that Pudge befriends colleagues such as the Colonel, a lower-class math genius with a stoic attitude and sarcastic personality, and Alaska Young, an intelligent, free-spirited, impulsive young woman (and the source of the novel’s title). Much attention is given to Pudge’s somewhat unrequited desire for Alaska, and his attempts to understand her despite her impulsiveness and her candidness.

The novel is structured into two parts: Before and After. The Before section of this novel can be approached as a countdown, in that every chapter tracks the days that are left until an unknown event occurs. With this in mind, the reader approaches this first section with an awareness that a major, plot-shifting event is about to occur–thus creating an anticipation for the event that will mark the beginning of the After section (MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD). This event happens to be Alaska’s death, as she dies when drunkenly driving to her mother’s grave to leave flowers on the anniversary of her death. The novel, however, is unclear as to whether or not this death was intentional. Thus, the After section, which comprises about 1/3 of the novel, focuses mostly on Pudge’s and the Colonel’s attempt to cope with the grief and guilt instilled by Alaska’s passing. Although Alaska’s death certainly comes as a shock, the novel foreshadows this event various times, the most notable instances being:

  • When Pudge questions why Alaska smokes cigarettes so quickly, she responds by saying “Y’all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die” (44). This claim gives the reader insight into the fast-paced fashion in which Alaska lives, and furthermore, it possibly indicates an affinity that Alaska has with the death drive.
  • Further exemplifying Alaska’s connection to the death drive and self-harm, when Pudge suggests that Alaska should stop drinking so much, she responds with the following: “Pudge, what you must understand about me is that I am a deeply unhappy person” (124).

What is interesting about this novel is that although Pudge is undoubtedly its protagonist, its narrative is driven primarily by Alaska’s suffering. Her unhappiness can be traced back to her early childhood, where she witnessed her mother dying of an aneurysm, yet was too shocked and confused to help her at the moment. According to Pudge, her impulsiveness and her desire to continue moving forward is her way of making up for her supposed lack of inaction as a child. Alaska’s dissatisfaction with life, and her connection with the notion of suffering, are narratively framed by intertextual references, the most notable being a reference taken from Gabriel García Márquez’s The General in His Labyrinth–a historical novel on Simón Bolívar. Alaska points out that Bolívar’s last words are “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth!” (19). From this moment on, Bolívar’s last words become a significant motif in the novel.

The motif of the labyrinth becomes quite significant in an instance in which Pudge and Alaska are discussing futurity. Alaska expresses her disdain for the future, for it lures people into the trap of focusing on the not-yet-here rather than the here. It is in this rejection of futurity (a foreshadowing of her death, perhaps?) that the image of the labyrinth becomes associated with Alaska’s ideas of suffering:

You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you’ll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present. (54)

What is significant about this passage is that Alaska clearly believes that there is no way of escaping the labyrinth that we are stuck in. The passage is imbued with a crushing pessimism–to the point where Alaska is unable to envision any reality besides the one she lives. Alaska views suffering as a static presence in her life. Suffering is so crippling for her, that she is ultimately unable to envision a way of being that is different to the reality she is currently living–which leads her to reformulate the question originally penned by García Márquez: “How will we ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?” (158). In due course, Alaska’s reformulation of this question becomes the question that haunts the novel’s characters. How do they escape the labyrinth of suffering erected by Alaska’s death?

While the novel eerily suggests that death is the only way of escaping this labyrinth, I find it interesting how the novel ultimately emphasizes the importance of the labyrinth in our everyday existence. As Pudge reflects on Alaska’s reconfiguration of the big question, he recognizes a shift in his way of thinking. Originally, Pudge thinks that the only way to cope with the labyrinth of suffering was by pretending “that it did not exist, to build a small, self-sufficient world in a back corner of the endless maze and to pretend that I was not lost, but home” (219). Pudge’s moment of growth occurs when he realizes that the labyrinth is ultimately an inseparable part of life. To live is to suffer. Life is more than the maze, but the maze is still an integral component of life. Pudge realizes that by trying to escape the maze, or by ignoring it, he is setting aside the very experience of navigating the maze, and he is focusing on the end rather than on the events that led him to the end. This exemplifies a moment of growth for Pudge, for it is here that he begins to distance himself from teleological notions: the process of navigating the maze is just as important as the process of escaping it.

The novel thus concludes with a glorification of adolescence, precisely because it is a middle ground between the beginning and the end. It is a time in which uncertainty reigns supreme–where possibilities are endless. It denotes the moment in which we navigate the maze, not when we enter it or escape it. As Pudge states in his teenage manifesto:

When adults say, “Teenagers think they are invincible” with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don’t know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old.  (220)

John Green’s Looking for Alaska has given me serious food for thought, not only when it comes to the role of suffering in YA literature, but also in when it comes to considering how suffering is connected to the sense of invincibility and infinity associated with the concept of adolescence. Through the act of looking for Alaska, we find not only ourselves, but we also find more interesting ways of navigating labyrinths. When it comes to the labyrinth of young adult literature, perhaps it is time to stop finding a way out of it, and focus our energies in co-existing with it. Perhaps it is time to relish the interconnectedness of YA fiction–its ability to be all-encompassing, ever-expanding, and invincible.

Work Cited

Green, John. Looking for Alaska. New York: Dutton Books, 2005. Print (Hardcover Edition).

You can purchase a copy of Green’s novel by clicking here.

Candle cover image by coloneljohnbritt.

Course Syllabus for “The Young Adult Novel” – University of Notre Dame

Here is the syllabus for a course that I designed on the Young Adult Novel. I will teach this course during the fall 2014 semester at the University of Notre Dame. I’m very excited about this course for various reasons–mostly because I finally get to teach the texts that I work with and that I love. This course is offered as an English 20XXX requirement, which is an English course for non-majors. I also managed to get the course cross-listed with the gender studies department–especially since class discussions will focus heavily on notions of sexuality and the body that are looming in YA fiction. As of now, 18 of my 19 students are seniors, and they all come from different concentrations such as marketing, biology, English, gender studies, American studies, and education

The most difficult thing about designing this course was the choice of novels to be discussed in class. I wanted to strive for a balance between male and female authors, and I also wanted students to familiarize themselves with books that either they haven’t encountered before, or books that blur the line between young adult literature and literature marketed to adults. Because of this, I feel that there is a lack of novels focused on issues of race and class, but I will certainly make sure to cover these issues during the semester.

As always, all comments and suggestions are more than welcome. You are welcome to draw inspiration from this syllabus, but please make sure to give me credit if you do so–and be sure to share your syllabus with me so I can see what you did similarly or differently! I hope you enjoy the course I’ve designed, and I will keep you posted with how everything is going as the semester unfolds.

On YA Fiction with Gay Latino Characters: Benjamin Alire Sáenz’s Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

Front cover of Benjamin Alire Sáenz's Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (2012)

Front cover of Benjamin Alire Sáenz’s Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (2012)

Words were different when they lived inside of you.

– Benjamin Alire Sáenz, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (p. 31)

A few years ago, I wrote a short essay that was published in the Changing Lives, Changing Minds blogs managed by UMass Dartmouth regarding the importance of young adult literature in my personal and professional life. In this small essay, I discuss that although gay YA fiction helped me to accept myself and to understand the nuances of sexuality and sexual orientation, I always felt a “rift” between my reality as a Latino man and the reality depicted in most gay coming-of-age novels, mostly because:

the representation of the coming out process within the literature is influenced by social, cultural, and racial factors, such that the depiction of the turbulent relationship between certain socio-cultural backgrounds and homosexuality seems to be overshadowed by the ostensibly progressive perspectives of gay males portrayed in novels with white middle- or upper-class protagonists.

Now, this is not to say that there was a total absence of gay YA novels with central Latino/a characters or protagonists. Alex Sanchez’s works, such as his heartwarming Rainbow Boys series and his politically charged novel The God Box have prominent gay Latino characters who happen to be well-rounded, and who are able to fall in love and find happiness (unlike other gay Latino characters in YA fiction, such as in the case of Nick Burd’s The Vast Fields of Ordinary, who are depicted as tortured souls unable to reconcile their personal desires with the demands of their culture). And while I’ll be the first to admit that Sanchez’s works were groundbreaking, I’ve pointed out previously that they are many times perceived as overly didactic, giving them an almost instruction manual-esque character–which is unsurprising given the fact that Sanchez obtained a master’s degree in guidance and counseling. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Sanchez’s work. But I love it more for it’s emancipatory nature rather than its literariness.

Didactic is one of the last words that comes to mind when reading Benjamin Alire Sáenz’s Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. I still can’t get over how beautiful and amazing this novel is (I know, beautiful and amazing are not “academic” judgments–but as the protagonist of this novel emphasizes, rules must be broken).  This novel is expertly crafted. The prose is simple, delicate, unpretentious, and poetic. The characters are complex, sympathetic, and real. Alire Sáenz plays whimsically with text and blank space, at times giving me the impression that I’m reading a poem rather than a novel. Finally, we have a young adult novel with a gay Latino protagonist that exudes literary merit while also keeping its soul accessible. This is the novel I wish I had in my hands as a teenager, but unless time machines are invented any time soon, I know that this is an impossibility. Alire Sáenz’s words found a way to dig deep inside of me, and as pointed out in the quote above, words mean different things when they dwell in you.

The novel centers on a fifteen year-old Mexican-American teenager named Angel Aristotle Mendoza (who is known as Ari by his family and peers) as he befriends fifteen year-old Dante Quintana, the Mexican-American son of an English professor and a therapist. Early on in this coming-of-age novel, which takes place from 1987-88, it is clear that both of these boys are very different in terms of their outlooks on life, due mostly to their different upbringings. Ari’s father is a Vietnam vet who rarely shares his thoughts of the war and who barely speaks at all, and his mother is a school teacher who maintains a strict yet playful relationship with Ari. Ari is constantly haunted by the fact that his brother, who is fifteen years older than him, was sent to jail when he was four years-old–and the family refuses to acknowledge the brother’s existence, even when Ari requests to know more about his sibling. Growing up with a distant father and family secrets results in Ari having difficulties to share his life openly with other people. Ari’s family contrasts significantly with Dante’s family, who refuse to keep secrets from each other, and who openly show affection. Dante is also an open book who shares his thoughts and emotions even when he is aware that they may offend or bother those who surround him. Despite these differences, they do share many common tastes–especially in terms of their love for language and the written word.

The development of the relationship between Ari and Dante is the crown jewel of this novel. The relationship between these two teens, who at first were friendless and  lonely, is quite intense. Their love for each other is first accentuated when Aristotle jumps in front of a car in order to save Dante’s life. Aristotle ends of breaking both legs and an arm in his effort to push Dante away from a speeding vehicle, and as he recovers in a hospital, the two boys begin to grow closer. As their relationship develops, we as readers observe how the two teens begin to deeply influence each other, and we also observe how their personalities and ideologies spark when coming into contact. I was drawn to specific moments in which Dante’s openness clashed with Ari’s reserved and conservative nature. An instance of this clashing can be seen in the following exchange between the two characters:

“I went swimming today,” he [Dante] said.

“How was it?”

“I love swimming.”

“I know,” I said.

“I love swimming,” he said again. He was quiet for a little while. And then he said, “I love swimming–and you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Swimming and you, Ari. Those are the things I love the most.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” I said.

“It’s true.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I said you shouldn’t say it.”

“Why not?”

“Dante, I don’t–”

“You don’t have to say anything. I know that we’re different. We’re not the same.” (151)

What caught my attention in this passage was not only the differences in attitudes that exist between the two characters, but also the way Dante’s sexual orientation is handled in the novel. This passage is essentially Dante’s coming-out to Ari. Later on in the novel, Dante explicitly mentions that he has kissed boys and that he eventually wants to marry a man, but this “confession” is done fearlessly and effortlessly. Dante does have issues in terms of revealing his sexual orientation to his parents, but this is because he is an only child, and he is worried about the heteronormative expectation (especially within Latino communities) of providing grandchildren to his parents: “I’m the only son. What’s going to happen with the grandchildren thing? I hate that I’m going to disappoint them, Ari. I know I’ve disappointed you too” (227).

Dante’s belief that Ari is disappointed in him stems from the fact that he believes that Ari will break their friendship because of his sexual orientation. Ari, however, asserts that they are still friends–and they continue to be friends even when Dante overtly expresses his love for Aristotle. Despite how clear it is that Ari loves Dante, Ari constantly tries to assert heterosexuality. There is an instance in which Dante asks Ari how he is sure that he doesn’t like men if he hasn’t tried doing anything with them–prompting Ari to kiss Dante in order to test the gay waters. Ari claims that the kiss was not enjoyable. Even after Dante is (SPOILER ALERT) gay-bashed during the novel’s falling action, and even after Dante’s parents confess that theyknow Dante is in love with Ari, the latter is unable to say that the two are anything but friends:

I [Ari] wanted to tell them [Dante’s parents] that he had changed my life and that I would never be the same, not ever. And that somehow it felt like it was Dante who had saved my life and not the other way around. I wanted to tell them that he was the first human being aside from my mother who had ever made me want to talk about things that scared me. I wanted to tell them so many things and yet I didn’t have the words. So I just stupidly repeated myself. “Dante’s my friend.” (309)

Something I found remarkably groundbreaking was the fact that it is Ari’s father who helps him come to terms with his sexual orientation. During the final chapters of the novel, Ari and his father have a serious conversation regarding Dante’s feelings toward Ari. Ari points out that he is aware how Dante feels, but that ultimately he has no control over Dante’s feelings. Ari’s father responds by saying: “the problem isn’t just that Dante’s in love with you. The real problem–for you, anyway–is that you’re in love with him” (348). Ari’s father can’t stand seeing his son being consumed by loneliness and self-loathing, so rather than allowing his son to go through the difficulty of finding a way to come out (not only to others, but to himself)–the father becomes the catalyst that allows Ari to express his true sexual identity. I found this to be such a refreshing moment in this novel, for we witness an instance in which the father figure (who is typically represented as chauvinistic, patriarchal, and homophobic in other gay novels with Latino characters) disrupts heteronormative stereotypes by nurturing, rather than suppressing, his son’s homosexuality.

In sum, this is a beautiful, groundbreaking, and insightful novel, and this post really doesn’t do it any justice. I am honored and pleased to announce that I’m currently working on an essay focused on this novel for a collection of literary criticism on Latino/a young adult fiction. In this essay, I will explore how issues of futurity play a role in gay Latino/a YA fiction–and I am certain that Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe will add depth and heart to my academic inquiries.

You can purchase a copy of this novel here.

Work Cited.

Alire Sáenz, Benjamin. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. New York: Simon and Schuster BFYR, 2012. Print (Hardcover edition).

Chapters 1-3 of My Young Adult Novel, “Deviant”

This summer, I’ve been spending a lot of time editing and finishing a draft for my YA novel titled Deviant, a project that I’ve been working on for over two years. Although I thought I was finished with the basic draft this winter, I decided to reconfigure some key aspects of the plot, especially when it came to fleshing out some technical aspects of the universe I developed. This new draft, when compared to the older draft I posted last semester, should give you a clearer indication of the themes present within the novel, which include dystopia, education, predestination, and love.

I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback for these chapters. If reception for these chapters is positive, I might consider publishing a few more chapters on my blog.

Deviant Cover Angel Matos

Chapter I


I rest behind the garbage bin as I try to catch catch my breath. I think they finally lost track of me. I don’t know what’s more unbearable at this moment: the deathly grip of the temperature, or running desperately in the middle of the night with nothing but a hospital gown on. I mean, after all, it’s not too difficult to spot a red-headed teenager running frantically through the city in a pink gown. So much for keeping a low profile.

A sharp pain invades my right foot. Splatters of cracked wine-colored scabs meandered through the shades of periwinkle that cover my fingers. Bruises peppered my legs like confetti. I can’t remember the last time I had sensation in my toes. I huddle my legs against my chest in an effort to retain the little body heat I have left. With all the time I’ve spent immersed in ice during the past few months, I thought I’d be used to the cold by now. But the thought of ice did nothing but crystalize my fear.

I know one thing is certain. Either I’ll die out here in the snow, or they’ll catch me. Either way, I don’t think I’m going to last much longer. I wonder whether it would be more painful to freeze here next to a garbage bin or whether it would be worse to endure the toxins that they’re bound to inject within my body. Neither option seems too appealing at the moment. I take a deep breath, look up, and exhale. A large cloud of steam escapes my mouth. The cloudy wisps tango into the air until they dissipate into atmosphere, leaving no trace behind. If only I were like the steam. If only I can disappear into thin air on sheer will. If only I were free of my body. I guess death will provide that sense of evanescence I crave. Ironic, isn’t it?

I gently turn around and bend on my knees. I wonder if they managed to keep up with me. I grab the corners of the garbage bin with my fingers and I slowly tilt my head to the side. The three figures stand ominously across the street. Damn. I was too desperate to cover my footprints in the snow. I led them right to me.

I blow some steam into my hands, hoping to give them even a few seconds of heat and consolation. It’s useless. My fingers are a nauseating shade of mauve. Although they are numb, they are still shaking violently in a last ditch effort to produce warmth. This effort is in vain. My fingers will freeze. I will die. I’ve always been afraid to die, but the idea seems comforting at this point and time. Perhaps it’s because I’m cold and unable to think straight. But, perhaps I know deep down that whatever awaits me after death, even if it’s nothingness that awaits, is better than the misery I’m suffering in life. I’m beginning to sound like those angst-ridden teenagers in those texts that I always complain about, but I think I’ve earned the right to complain at this point.

I see a darkened alley nearby. Maybe if I make a run for it, they won’t catch me. I grab a crushed food can near the bin. This is it. I launch the can towards the opposite direction of the alley. I hear the metallic clink a few meters away.

I run. Well, I stumble. I’m losing my ability to balance myself. My feet are warning me that they can’t handle much more pressure. I feel a beam of light hit the side of my face as I head towards the alley. So much for my distraction.

I head towards the alley and reach a fence. Seriously, a fence? I thought fences in dark alleys were only used to make escape sequences dramatic in action films. The movie’s hero is chased by the villains and he or she dramatically climbs the fence and jumps over it avoiding the gang of thugs/zombies/cult members running after them. That’s not happening here. Between my frozen feet and my frostbitten fingers, it would be a miracle if I could climb half a meter. I frantically look around. The windows of the adjacent buildings are also too high for me to climb.

I’m trapped. I sit on the ground, knees against my legs. I lean my back against the cold brick of the one of the buildings. Flurries continue to descend from the sky, covering everything in an opaque whiteness. Everything looks exactly the same covered in snow. I chuckle as I think of snow, the element that is slowly draining my life away, as a leveling agent: everything and everyone gets covered in the same fashion by its flakes. Doesn’t matter what shape or size. The snow is careless. It lacks judgment. It’s impartial, unlike the people slowly approaching me.

Bursts of bright light invade my pupils. I cover my eyes, shielding them from the gleam of the three flashlights. My back presses firmly against the grimy wall. The rough texture of the brick perforates my skin. Sweat pours down my soiled hair. My chest heaves back and forth. A continuous flow of steam escapes my mouth. My carnation pink hospital gown offers little protection from the wind and the snow. I always knew that they would find me, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon.

I d-don’t care w-what you d-do or say. I’m n-never going b-b-back there.”

I’m not afraid. I’m freezing. Too bad my stuttering makes me seem like a coward. I have to show them that I’m not afraid. I stand up. My fragile body shivers and quakes as I try to straighten up my body. I shake my head side to side, dusting off the snowflakes that have accumulated over the crown of my head. I take another deep breath. This time, I pronounce the worlds loudly and clearly without stuttering.

Did you hear me? I…am never…going back.” I grab a heap of snow with my stiff fingers and fling it towards the flashlights. A wall of white sprinkles in front of my face as the three beams of light head towards me. Two of the beams of light die off; the other points directly at my face. Two men in black suits and cerulean ties grab me by each arm. The remaining light is soon consumed by the darkness. Even without the flashlights on, I can see their faces quite clearly. It seems that even the moon has a luminous interest in this recent development of events. The moon shining. The snow falling. What a lovely night this would’ve been under different circumstances.

There she is, dissecting my every thought and move with her incandescent eyes—one glows with a yellowish hue, like the eyes of the panther. I can’t distinguish the color of the other eye, but it is much darker than the one on the left. Strange. Nobody’s guardians deliberately select two different eye colors for their progeny. As a matter of fact, I think the Regime explicitly prohibits garish physical traits such as these. They would interpret it as a deviance from the natural order of things. The different eye colors must have been a mutation… an unfortunate accident. Leave it up to a marked person to police marked individuals.

She loosens up her ponytail. Her strawberry blond hair flows freely. Her flawless alabaster skin reflects the moonlight, and her bright pink dress-suit, on the verge of a neon tone, could be spotted miles away in pure darkness. She reminds me of those brightly colored frogs that live in the Amazons, distinguished by their dazzling colors that serve as a warning to other creatures. Even animals know not to mess with beasts that don extravagant, bright-colored coats. Who knew that someone so beautiful could be so… menacing. Yet this beauty is nothing but a mask. All that resides is ugliness inside of that captivating shell. Yes. Nothing but a ragged mummy within a jewel-encrusted sarcophagus.

Well, Amethyst, it seems like you thought you could escape the Hub yet again. But as you very well know, nobody escapes. Deviants such as yourself can never leave, at least not until reparations are finalized. I must say, however, that your attempt to escape was quite a… noble effort. Ineffective, but very noble indeed.”

There’s s-s-still p-plenty of time for me to es-ca-ca-cape.” No. I started stuttering again. The woman chuckles. Seems like she’s amused.

Did you hear that, boys? Amethyst still thinks she has a shot at freedom. Little girls and their big dreams. Dreams are for weaklings, darling.”

At least I’m c-capable of dreaming. M-monsters like you never dream.” Even with the two guards grasping my arms, it’s still getting harder to stand by the minute. I can’t collapse on the floor. I can’t let them see any more signs of weakness.

She steps towards me. Her eyes scan me top to bottom, basking in the pathetic visage in front of her. My bloody face. My bruised knees. My shivering body. She must be enjoying this spectacle. She leans toward my face. Her mouth is about two inches away from my own. She softly closes her eyes and whispers, “True. But that’s because monsters inhabit the realm of nightmares. And guess what, my dear Amethyst? Nightmares are still dreams. Cooperate, or I’ll make sure that you’re living a nightmare for the rest of your meager, pathetic existence.” She says this with a demeanor that is both calm and serene. Now I’m beginning to feel afraid. I try to respond, but no words come out of my mouth. Only steam does.

Denise knows better than to try and escape. She knows that we can repair her” says the woman, still inches away from my face.

Denise. For a moment, I nearly forgot about her. I tried to let her know of my plan to escape. I wanted her to come with me. The Hub, however, is very cautious with its administration. It would be a shame to allow a relapse to occur within its premises.

My mind wanders off to my time in the Hub. I recall the cramped white room with nothing but a bunk bed, a sink, and a toilet. The nauseating smell of disinfectant and toilet-cleaner constantly invaded my nostrils. My cellmate was a seventeen year-old guy named Trevor. He was clearly ashamed about his recruitment to the Hub. It could be worse. Enrollment in the Hub was usually one of the lighter punishments for Deviants like us.

He would toss and turn while sleeping at night, whimpering the name of a person that I didn’t know. A person that he refused to talk to me about. When I first mentioned this name, he cupped one hand over my mouth and just stared straight into my eyes. With his other hand, he gently made a zipping motion across his lips. I perfectly understood who this person was.

Trevor and I had known each other since our first year in the Culture and Communication Center. I was seven when I first met him. Our assigned Center is the least popular of all the training centers, and we knew that. Understandably, we weren’t excited to be there, but it’s not like we have much of a choice in terms of what Center we are assigned to at that age. Although we briefly talked during the first couple of years, we soon grew apart. Who knew that we would one day be cell mates at the Hub?

The transgression that led to my imprisonment happened about four months ago. All it took was one moment. One moment to obliterate years of work and effort. One moment to destroy a lifetime of possibility. When it happened, Denise and I knew we were doomed. Hopeless. Lost. The Regime doesn’t take these matters lightly if you are caught—and although it’s been decades since all the cells in the Hub have been full, you occasionally see one or two new faces in the dining hall every month or so. Denise and I were the unlucky ones this time. You can never be too careful here… the Regime is always watching. Always listening.

The alpha of this demonic pack stands in front of me, breathing heavily on my face, with a hand placed firmly into her pocket. I know what comes next. We all do. We’ve been warned about the penalties for multiple transgressions. We all knew the protocol that Hub-Masters usually followed when pursuing an escapee. Knowing what comes next, I looked at her adamantly with a sense of valor.

Leave…Denise… out of this.” I’m losing my breath.

Oh Amethyst, just drop the act of courage and valor. You already look pathetic. Do you want to actually be pathetic as well? I don’t have to explain what happens next. Accept your fate, and rest assured knowing that our country will become a cleaner place with your departure.”

I can’t take it anymore. With all my might, I yank my arms away from the guards and I lunge at her, trying my best to knock her into the snow. With any luck, her head will bash into the pavement. I lock my arms around her, but she barely budges. I must be way weaker than I thought I was. Adrenaline failed to be my hero at this point. The Hub-Master grabs me by my hair and tosses me on the ground. I look up and see those eyes. They truly do look monstrous in the moonlight.

I black out momentarily. I open my eyes and notice one of the guard’s boots embedded within my abdomen. The other guard swings his foot. I black out once again. Yes, that’s blood dripping out of my mouth.

I spit out the life-bearing fluid and watch the crimson masterpiece that I created on the silver snow. I lay the side of my head on the red-tinged surface. I will raise my white flag. “I can’t be repaired. I refuse to be repaired” I whisper, loud enough for them to hear me.

The woman gives me a half smile and pulls out the roll of parchment that I was expecting to see. Parchment. How old-fashioned. How traditional. One of my history instructors back at the Center mentioned that all agencies belonging to the Regime use parchment for most of their official documents. It makes them feel as if they were in touch with history. The days when Deviants were nowhere to be found. The days when the entire population upheld the virtues of purity and dignity. Strangely, with my act of defiance, I feel like I have fully embraced both of those virtues.

She unrolls the parchment and reads the proclamation in a stern and cold voice. Even the snow seems termperate in comparison to that voice. I know the proclamation by heart—I saw it all the time in movies and television shows repeatedly, all telling the story of people who dare defy the fourth natural law. To add insult to injury, they even made the proclamation rhyme—a lullaby uttered right before our final sleep. It sounds just like I expect it to sound, but with my name and Borough mentioned in the first verse. Rhymes used to always calm me down as a kid. This rhyme manages to finish the snow’s job of freezing the blood running through my veins.

Amethyst Jacobson of the South-western Borough,

The Regime has been clear, its stipulations were thorough.

Your defiance of nature, and a will that won’t bend,

Leaves us no choice but to uphold and defend

The revered mandate of the fourth natural law:

your sacrifice will bring order and peace to us all.”

As she finished the proclamation, she kneels down on the floor and pulls out a syringe from her pocket. She pulls out a vial with a rose-colored liquid. I don’t even feel the needle piercing my flesh. I never thought I would die this way. I always thought I’d be old, surrounded by my loved ones, dying in the warmth of my bedroom. Or fighting bravely against my sworn enemies and foes. But here I am, weak and defenseless: a bloody rag doll laying helplessly as the snow carelessly embraces me.

I feel the heat draining away from my body. My chest tightens. No more steam escapes from my mouth. My eyes are open, but now, all I see is blackness. My spirit finally breaks as I realize that for me, there is no white light at the end tunnel.

Chapter II


Another lovely semester at the magnificent Culture and Communications Center. I wonder what academic joys await us this year” I say, staring at the colossal gates in front of me.

Oh please, you know a day here beats any day doing nothing at the apartment. At least here we can keep busy with our training rather than watching another pointless television show. If I see another stupid display of teenagers with unbelievable vocabulary ranges and raging libidos, I’m going to gouge my eyes out.” Alice is clearly upset that we spent so much of our summer lounging on the sofa. I, on the other hand, really appreciated that break from the bleakness and mundaneness of training at the Center. I’ve been here for way too long, and I still have about six more years to go. Yes, I’ve learned a lot, but I think I’ve reached a plateau in terms of my development. I mean, you can only hear and see the same thing so many times before it ceases to amuse you.

I guess to some extent, Alice is right to be bothered about the lack of excitement that characterized our break from the Center. To say that out summer was monotonous would be an understatement. I went out a couple of times, slept for countless hours, drank more alcohol than I should’ve, and basically did nothing else but glue myself to the sofa in order to watch reruns of my favorite shows. Now here I am standing in front of the same old extravagant ivory gate, with my roommate at my side, staring at the emerald-hued concrete building behind the bars. One man’s education is another man’s prison.

The building seems to be surrounded by even more glowing screens, maps, and advertisements than I last recalled. It’s only been three months since I last walked out of that gate. The same soft instrumental music emanates from the speakers that surround the gates. The music used to get on my nerves. It made the school feel artificial and staged, no different from those amusement parks that are found in some of the southern Boroughs. Now, I barely ever notice it.

The place looks a little different this time around” I say, looking at the screens near the main entrance of the Center.

Well, the place always looks different but it’s always the same. More display screens. More advertisements. If I see another jade statue of the number eight somewhere in the Center, I think I’m going to hurl.” Alice motions her index finger towards her throat as if she were pretending to puke. Sure enough, we approach one of the many statues portraying a V shape accompanied by three vertical lines, which prominently displays the history of our Center on the lavish holographic platform.

You know you love these statues deep down, Alice. How they represent the greatness of our Center, and how they illustrate how amazing our futures will be. I was thinking of getting you a small replica for your birthday. I think it will look marvelous on your night stand” I say with a smirk.

You get me a replica and I’ll shove the V down your throat and the I’s where the sun doesn’t shine. Don’t forget, your room is only about four meters away from mine. Don’t make me violent.” Alice doesn’t look at me once during the threat.

It’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll just make sure to sleep with one eye open and a heavy blunt object under my pillow. If worse comes to worse, I’ll either pull your hair or I’ll retaliate by lunging at you with my own little replica sitting on my desk.” I flash a charming smile, dazzling her with my immaculate teeth. She can’t help but laugh. Works every time.

Come on Levi, I know you wouldn’t lay a finger on me. You adore me too much.” She tilts her head and flashes a smile right back. I immediately give her a light shove with both hands. She sticks her tongue out at me.

The music playing from the speakers changes. A familiar arrangement of a harp and violins begins to increase in volume. Yes, they are playing Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers– yet again. You hear the song at least once every week. I look at Alice with the corner of my eye. Alice calls our music instrumental music. Where she comes from, instruments are usually accompanied with the voice of a human being, uttering words and phrases to the tune of the melody. The combination of music and the human voice is deemed unnatural in our country, so many of us have no idea of what that amalgamation sounds like. Well, I have an idea because of that one time Alice gave me a demonstration. The image of her moving her lips in unison with music was both unexpected and haunting, but I try my best to prevent myself from thinking about it too much. The last thing I need is to be caught breaking a natural law.

Do you hear what they’re playing again?”

Alice puts on a fake Northern accent, similar to the one we’ve seen on documentaries, and answers “Yes, my dear Levi. Why, it’s our song! Care to join me for a quick venture around the dance floor?”

Without missing a beat, I stretch out my hand and bow down. Alice does a simple curtsy and stretches out her hand towards mine. I bend down even further and touch my lips gently on the top of her fingers. “My lady, I would never miss an opportunity to dance with you.” I then grasp her hand firmly with one hand, wrap my other arm around her waist, and as I lift her off the ground, we begin twirling. We twirl until I feel dizzy. I place her on the floor, and we resume our habitual routine: prancing around each other, flapping our hands around like the wild geese that flock by the Center during the winter. I run towards Alice to lift her up for the grand finale.

Will you two cut it out already? You know it’s against regulations to cause a stir around the premises of the Center. Don’t make me report you to the Chancellor!”

It was one of the guards, dressed in the usual (and hideous) khaki green coats with way too many buttons and pockets. He towers over us by at least half a meter. His cheeks blush in a deep scarlet and he is sweating profusely. His lips are twisted in a snarl, and he holds his rifle firmly with both hands. So much for our grand finale.

We’re sorry, sir. We just got bitten by the music bug. We’ll be heading towards the Center now.”

Not so fast. Identification, please” says the guard as he pulled out the familiar black box from one of his pockets. We each took turns waving the back of our left hands in front of the scanner and watched as the small light glowed green twice.

You both may proceed, and no fooling around this time. Adults have no business moving around like that in Center grounds.”

Yes sir!” we say, giving the guard a salute with our right hand.

We both walk stiffly through the ivory gate, trying our best to hold back the laughter that is struggling to explode out of our chests. Waltz of the Flowers continues to play ever so lightly as we walk into the Center.

Almost everything looks exactly as it did last semester. A few new decorative plants surround the premises. The same tall emerald encrusted fountain still crowns the middle of the courtyard. The fountain is called the weeping willow, and it is made of a series of distorted male and female bodies entangled in a shape that resembles a tree trunk. Water shoots out of the top center part of the trunk in a mushroom shape, giving it the effect of willow leaves draping around the mainframe. The bodies in the middle are actually quite difficult to discern, because you have to look between the gaps in the flowing water in order to catch a glimpse.

The front courtyard of the Center is enormous, but it was only a small part of the massive Center system. Many think of Centers as small cities. Even though our Center is the lowest ranking one in the Republic, it is undoubtedly one of the largest. It houses over 1.2 million trainees, thousands of instructors, and it currently has over 152 buildings—and the number of buildings increases by four or five every year. Alice and I tried walking from one side of the Center to another. It took us nearly three hours to complete the journey, and that’s taking into account that we’re pretty brisk walkers. People usually take the underground platform system to travel from one building to another. This system is composed of fifty hover-platforms that float through a series of magnetic rails and tunnels underground. They travel so fast that you can reach the furthest building from the Center’s entrance in less than fifteen minutes.

It would actually be a lovely sight if it weren’t for all of the guards parading all over the Center, dressed in their unsightly green attire and their enigmatic mirrored helmets that cover half of their faces. Alice and I usually refer to the Center as Oz, an allusion to the Emerald City in L Frank Baum’s text TheWonderful Wizard of Oz, one of the few surviving texts of the twentieth century. I should add that this is an illegal text that people aren’t supposed to possess in any way or form. The designers of the Center mentioned something about the color green being calming or soothing, which is ironic because I rarely feel calm within these walls. Perhaps it has something to do with all of the guards and their rifles. The Oz reference is quite appropriate: even our daily uniforms are a pale mint color. The only difference between uniforms are the expected gender markers: males wear dark blue khakis while females wear long pink colored skirts that must cover their knees. Girls are typically referred to as watermelons due to the stark and jarring contrast of colors that they wear.

Despite the overwhelming presence of green, and the guards with rifles, Oz is not the most uncomfortable Center in the Republic. It surely beats TEC—the Technology and Engineering Center located in the Southern Borough of the Republic—in terms of style and comfort. Although Oz is certainly the least prestigious center of the eight located in the Republic, people here are known for being exceptionally nice and welcoming.

Although many consider it a burden to be assigned to Oz, they rarely focus on how easygoing things can be here. Although we still had to follow rigorous schedules, demanding instructors, and although we barely had free time during a semester, at least we didn’t live in the cold, mechanical world of the Southern Borough. In that division, everything from hobbies to leisurely activities are regulated by the Regime.

Levi. Levi! Helloooo! Is anyone home?” I snap out of my trance. How long was I just standing there, staring at the entrance to Oz? There is something about the first semester of the year that awakens a clash of emotions within me. Although I’m excited to meet my friends again and do something other than sit in front of my computer monitor, the repetitive nature of our training really gets to me at times. But I guess repetition is necessary if you are to become perfect. And if you can’t achieve perfection, you at least want to be good enough at something to get a job. Just a few more years in Oz, and I’m out of here.

Sorry Alice, just daydreaming again. It must be my nerves striking me.”

Because of the reception?”

Yeah. As much as I enjoy being surrounded by countless strangers, watching them dance like idiots and informing them about the glory and wonders that Oz has to offer, I’d much rather stay in my apartment reading a text or watching a film.”

Too bad the reception is mandatory. Who knows? You might make a new friend.” Alice gives me a gentle nudge and a mischievous smile. “You can certainly use a new friend in your life. Don’t get me wrong, I love you to pieces, but I’m not going to be around forever, you know?”

Sure. I’ve been at Oz for nearly seven years, and I can count all of my friends with the fingers on my left hand. I doubt this year’s transfers and recruits will be chock full of interesting subjects. Who knows, maybe I’ll meet some beautiful woman who will join me in my quest for cultural and intellectual pursuits.”

Oh yes, your brooding personality and sarcasm is perfect bait for all the young and cultured women out there. Watch out girls! Levi is back in town!”

Alice was right. I wasn’t very successful in courting women at all. I’m nineteen years old, and I’ve only had two girlfriends. Well, girlfriend is an overstatement, seeing as those relationships lasted about three months. They always complained. They always ranted about me not wanting enough. They also weren’t able to understand my so-called “constant fading away from reality.” But I couldn’t help it. Inside, I always feel like something is not right with me. For some reason, I tend to sabotage most of my relationships. Sometimes I think that I was just not built to be a boyfriend, if you get my drift. The more I think about it, the more I believe that some people are just not meant to embrace certain roles. Some people are not meant to be friends, or guardians, or instructors. However, we somehow fool ourselves into believing in the power of becoming… that we can learn to embrace and love things we are incapable of liking. Wow, I am a can full of sunshine, am I not?

The only person that I’ve always liked, well, loved, was Alice. With her, I could be myself. I could let go of my seriousness, embrace my inner goof, and dance faux ballet in front of the gates of Oz. When I say love, I don’t mean the marriage type of love, but rather a deeper kind of attachment. We truly respect and just get each other. We’re like family. Plus, she’s already in a relationship with Samuel. They’ve been together for seven years. I actually met the guy through video chat last May. He was very nice, and very funny. I can see why Alice would stick it out for someone like him. And in all honesty, I am happy for her. She’s my best friend, after all. Well, she’s virtually my only true friend. I am not feeling sorry for myself, I am merely stating the reality of my situation. There’s no need for anyone to feel sorry for me.

Alice transferred from the Northern Union to the Republic about three years ago. This, of course, is very rare. The Republic hardly ever accepts incomers from the Northern Union—so she must’ve been exceptionally brilliant—and she is. So she was issued a ten year Visa to live and train in the Republic, along with a full scholarship. Her guardians, or parents as they call them up North, were not enforced to pay the obligatory 30% of their yearly salaries to send their child to a training center. I still don’t fully get why she crossed the border to come here. The North is known for being liberal, to the point where virtually nothing is outlawed. It’s the antithesis to the Republic, a place known for regulating every possible choice and decision that you can make in your life.

I once asked her why she left the Northern Union to pursue studies here. She told me that entrance to a training institution, or universities as her country calls them, is not permitted until a person is at least eighteen-years old. Until then, they receive a general education that covers every imaginable area of study, from art, to culture, to math, to science, to language, to literature, and even physical education. Now, to me, that seems like a dream. You get to try a little of this and a little of that until you are absolutely certain of the path that you want to take in life. I guess freedom of choice is just as difficult as having no choice at all. At least if you’re life is a mess within the Republic, you can always blame everything on the Regime’s inflexibility and tendency to govern every aspect of your life. But when you’re in charge of every decision that must be made in your life, there is nobody else but yourself to blame when things go awry.

However, since Alice was young, she always was fond of history and cultural study, so she filled out a transfer application. After a lot of paper work, red tape, and bureaucratic nonsense, here she is: a place where all of her education is geared towards a single subject. I, on the other hand, would’ve given anything to leave the Republic for the Northern Union, but emigration is strictly forbidden for citizens of the Republic. We aren’t even allowed to vacation in other places other than the Boroughs. Alice has the choice to return back North at any time, where she is allowed to venture off to any place within the globe. However, I don’t know much about her life up North, mostly because she is restricted from sharing most details about her other life. Every time she shares a tidbit about her previous life, or even when she tells me what she did during her breaks in the Northern Union, she risks deportation, along with the obliteration of every single training credit she has received during the past three years. Did I mention that she also risks the possibility of public execution?

I’m not completely ignorant of the rest of the world, even though I will never get to see it with my own eyes. I’ve heard of Europe, the Caribbean islands, and even the lush jungles of South America, but my experience of these places is limited to video clips, photographs, and the occasional gossip that is heard about other countries. We are told that this prohibition had to do something with upholding the moral fiber of our country and preventing it from being stained by outside influences. Even the few people who immigrate to the Republic, such as Alice, have to take a series of behavioral tests in order to prove that their sense of morality fits within the social and cultural context of the Republic. Or, that they could at least pretend to uphold the same values.

Alice stands there with her arms folded and a bored look on her face. The sunlight greatly highlighted the sapphire hue of her eyes. Her snowy skin provided such a beautiful canvas for those blue eyes. And her hair, caught somewhere between dark-brown and black, delicately curled down from the crown of her head to her shoulders. But best of all was her simplicity. She never wore makeup, and unlike other girls in the Center, she didn’t get up two hours earlier to make herself beautiful. She always says that people should love her for who she is. And it works. Everybody adores Alice.

Too bad nobody looks good in their Center uniform. The stark contrast between the colors of her blouse and her skirt give her a garish look. “Well, I guess we better head off to the Nucleus and see what training assignments we will be given this semester. Let’s see what bores I have to sit through this time around.”

Alice nods her head. “We better hurry. The Distribution ceremony will take place in about twenty minutes” replies Alice unenthusiastically.

We walk to the closest glass dome near us. I arrive near the entrance of the dome and I wave my left head in front of the scanner perched on a platform. “Welcome to the CCC Underground Platform System. Your Network account will be charged two R-Credits for entryway into the terminal. Please state your destination” says the speaker located underneath the scanner. I bend slightly towards the speaker and loudly say “Nucleus.” I wait for about two seconds, and a small green light next to the speaker turns on. “Thank you, Mr. Solis. Your designated platform code will be sent to your Network armlet immediately. Enjoy your trip!” Such a polite machine. My Network armlet immediately lights up. I’m assigned platform N4.

Platforms depart every 10 minutes, so I wait for Alice to pay her entry into the dome. She’ll mostly likely be assigned the same platform anyway.

Did you get N4?” she asks as she walks in.

Yeah, it’s over there on the right” I say, pointing towards the direction of our platform.

Inside the Dome, we are surrounded by a series of eighty enormous round platforms. Each platform is marked with a letter and a number, and each one stops at three different destinations. They all can easily fit about two-hundred people. Every building of the Center is connected through a large underground web, and Domes are considered focal nexuses of this web because it is possible to reach any destination in the Center through a Dome. If taking a platform through a building, you’ll usually have to make a connection somewhere.

Alice and I walk to platform N4. The platform is nearly packed. We climb the chrome-colored stairs and wait above the transparent surface. Advertisements for new films and texts shine brightly across the floor. I look around and see new and familiar faces heading off to the Distribution ceremony. They make the ceremony sound extravagant and fancy, but the only exciting thing that happens is that we’re given the code that will allow us to access the training sessions that we were assigned for this semester. Every semester, the Center offers a very particular number of sessions for an exact number of students. We have no choice in terms of the training sessions that we take here at Oz. The administration makes those choices for us. We do fill out some forms with classes that we’re interested in, but rarely do they take those forms into account. I’ve been pretty lucky since my time here. I’ve enjoyed almost all of my training sessions, and even those worst one of them wasn’t that bad. Just boring and repetitive.

Please make sure your feet are located within the premises of the platform. We will depart in thirty seconds. Make sure to rest your back firmly against the panels once they rise” announces a speaker located in the center of the platform. A series of panels rises from the edges of the platform, allowing nobody to enter or nobody to leave. I walk towards one of the panels and press my back firmly against it, just as we were instructed to do. I hear the familiar buzzing noise and I watch as ropes of light girdle around our waists. This is to make sure that we stay balanced during the short trip, and to make sure that nobody is launched out of the platform during our journey. A few seconds later, I feel the platform dropping into the ground.

The thing I most look forward to in Distribution ceremonies is the ride on the platforms. Don’t get me wrong. I use the platform every day I spend in the Center, so I’m already used to it. However, there are many first years and transfer students who have never used an underground platform system before. Many first-timers are absolutely amused and amazed by the experience. The hilarious cases are those who are scared out of their mind—screaming at the top of their lungs during the entire trip. Alice once showed me a Network site dedicated to displaying pictures of people during their first trip in an underground platform. I find this amusing because I was with Alice during her first ride on a Center platform. I was minding my own business on the platform three years ago, but I was distracted by the fervent high-pitched screams that were unleashed ext to me. I turned my head to see a stranger (who turned out to be Alice), screaming aloud with her eyes shut. The noise coming out of her mouth was unnatural. It sounded like a cyborg howler monkey, if you get my drift. I laughed beyond belief, and once we arrived at the Nucleus, I helped a very dizzy Alice step out of the platform. Instant friendship.

Every underground tunnel has its own décor and flavor. Tunnels to the Nucleus are adorned with holographic projections of space and the Milky Way, accompanied by loud music and varying temperatures. It’s like venturing in a high speed rocket through the galaxy. We zoom past the sun and feel a rush of hot air against our faces. We ride alongside Hayley’s comet and watch as the entire tunnel becomes illuminated in a flash of white. The platform is traveling so fast that you can see women’s hair dancing in a chaotic frenzy. It’s hard to believe that we’re really in a large magnetic tube that connects from the Dome near Oz’s entrance to the Nucleus, and two other destinations afterwards.

Here comes my favorite part: the drop. I always know when it’s about to come because of the projection of the Orion constellation over our heads. As soon as we’re under Orion’s belt, the platform plummets into the darkness. I hear most of the first years screaming their hearts out, and I hear Alice laughing maniacally at their reactions. I was told that during the inauguration of the underground traveling system a couple of years ago, many elderly people died of heart attacks. It’s easy to see why that happened. I always thought that the intensity of this transportation was amazing yet impractical for so many reasons. On the other hand, I love the fact that I ride through a roller-coaster virtually every day of class. Besides, those who are too afraid to ride the platform can always use the much-slower trolleys around the Center.

This is, without a doubt, my favorite underground tunnel. We soon see a projection of planet Earth, which means we are close to our first destination. The platform stops moving. It begins to slowly ascend as we see the circle of light above us, leading to the Nucleus.

The red light under the speaker in the center of the platform illuminates. “Arriving at destination one – The Nucleus. Please remain inside the platform until your glow belts are deactivated” says the voice coming from the speaker. The platform rises all the way to the top. The halo of light encircling our waists fades away as the panels surrounding the platform lower beneath the surface. I see a larger dome around me made out of green-tinted glass. A first year next to me collapses on his knees as beads of sweat drop from his forehead. The platform is not designed for the faint of heart. Alice and I step out of the platform and head off to the Great Hall of the Nucleus.

Chapter III

Seat 212

I just love that each tunnel has a different theme. I’ve been using these platforms for three years and every single time I get excited. I can’t believe that our Center is lucky enough to get one” says Alice.

I can’t tell whether I love the one to the Nucleus or the underwater themed tunnel that leads to the Rolf’s Aquatic Center” I reply.

I just love the faces of all those first wretched little first years. Poor things have never experienced anything quite like underground travel” says Alice as we reach the Dome’s exit.

It wasn’t just the first years. Did you see the transfer students wailing as well? The thing travels so quickly. Didn’t you freak out a little your first time?” I say with a knowing smile. The image of a screaming Alice haunts my mind again.

Of course not! The underground tunnels were one of the neatest things I have seen in my life! It’s a shame that most of the other Centers don’t have them.” There she goes with her “tough-girl” act, but she’s fooling nobody.

Well, that’s because most of the other Centers are either smaller or have technologies that we haven’t even heard of. I’m sure TEC has a transportation system that exceeds our wildest expectations. I heard that they actually teleport from one building to another.”

Ugh, those annoying TEC people. They think they are high and mighty just because they go to the highest ranking Center. At least we learn about things that are important.”

Mmm, yeah, important, but you have to admit that what we do here isn’t exactly useful” I reply skeptically.

What? Of course what we do is useful! How dare you imply otherwise?” replies Alice adamantly.

Come on, Alice. You have to admit it. Other Centers create mind-blowing technology and save lives. They come up with new medications, new cost-effective ways to produce foods. They even managed to salvage the parts of the Republic that were drowning in water after the ice caps melted. And what do we do? We learn about the past and learn to judge and evaluate the beauty of things. Even then, we’re not really allowed to be creative, right? We just take notes and learn how to apply tired and old stories and theories. Any time we try a new approach, we are criticized and we fail our training courses.”

At least we’re doing something that we love to do.” Alice seems hurt by my words.

Hey, most people don’t even make the choice to come to this Center. You and I are the rare exceptions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that what we do has no importance. And when it comes down to it I love what I do. But, when it comes to pragmatics, we’re not really moving mountains or saving drowning cities.” I think about what I’m saying, and it sounds like I totally hate Oz and everything that it stands for. I don’t. I absolutely love what I do. I study the history of words, the beauty of language, and the role of culture in the formation of thought. But ever since I began my training here, I’ve been plagued with doubts and questions about the usefulness of my education. I believe what I do has meaning, but this meaning is so difficult to convey to people from other Boroughs. To be honest, I can’t really discern this meaning in the first place, so how could I possibly convey it to other people?

We are saving lives” states Leona, firmly. If it weren’t for people like us, people would lose what little humanity they have left. Some people are just too closed-minded to realize this. And come on, even the Republic realizes the importance of a cultural education. This Center wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.” Alice is right. I never really thought about this before. But why would the Republic have an Center devoted to such a liberal type of education (well, at least more liberal when compared to other Centers)?

The Nucleus is packed full of old and new faces. Every trainee dons the traditional Center uniform. I feel like we’re swimming in a sea of absinthe. The Nucleus is decorated the same way it always is during the Distribution ceremony. The baroque style columns and moldings that surround the building are glowing with white lights that twinkle like stars. Grape vines wrap around the walls and the tables in the reception area. White candles illuminate the entire entrance. The tables were stocked high with bread, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and wine.

I see a younger trainee trying to grab a small bottle of wine, but his hand is blocked by an invisible force. Poor thing. He doesn’t know that the alcohol is surrounded by a protective perimeter. The perimeter scans every subject’s biochip, so only those who are over the age of sixteen can stick their left hands in the perimeter to grab a drink. Rumor has it that the perimeter even limits the total amount of drinks that you can take. I wouldn’t know. I know better than to have too much to drink at Center events, especially with all the instructors and administrators lurking around.

Alice and I walk past the reception area to the tower of the Nucleus, there the Distribution ceremony will take place. The ceremony is always the same process every semester for students in Cultural and Communications training. We all gather around the Great Hall located on the second floor of the tower. All official and administrative business takes place in this sixteen story tower, and all of the center’s technology and officers are managed in the upper offices of this building. The Center’s Chancellor even has the entire upper floor all to himself—the penthouse, he calls it. Since the Chancellor lives there, we can only begin to imagine the luxury present within this floor. According to the Center’s official Network site, the chancellor’s floor has over 15 rooms, a ballroom, 12 bathrooms, and 5 offices. It’s massive, to say the least. Only the best and worst of students ever step foot within the penthouse, so I guess on the bright side, it’s a good thing that neither Alice nor I have had a reason to visit that floor.

We walk up the stairs to the second floor and we see the great hall. Lavish green tapestries with the Center’s insignia embroidered in golden thread—a series of dashes arranged in a circle with the Roman number VIII inscribed in the center—draped the smooth marble walls. Clouds and fog with a green hue swirled around the ceiling. Of course, these weren’t real clouds. They are projected using the same technology found in the underground platform system. Hundreds of thousands of chairs encircle a podium in the middle of the hall. Large monitor screens hover around the green swirls in the ceiling in order to give students sitting far away a closer look at the podium.

Waves of trainees are scattered around the room, trying to locate their assigned seats. Three guards stand near the entrance of the hall, two holding rifles and one sitting next to a box of folders, located near a list displayed on a rather large tablet computer. When I first arrived at Oz, I used to be terrified of the guards and their rifles. But after years of attending training here, it’s inevitable to get used to it. I’d be more surprised to see a guard without a gun, regardless of what building or Borough I’m in. I guess the Regime really underestimates our Center’s ability to cause a scene or to create a disruption given the serious lack of guards present in the area, especially when compared to other Centers within the Republic.

We stand in line to register for the Distribution ceremony. Alice stands in front of me, constantly looking back while rolling her eyes. Unlike me, Alice is totally impatient, and lines are most certainly not something she looks forward to. I on the other hand have the patience of an ox. Many people underestimate the beauty of lines. The organization. The opportunity to closely scrutinize those around you. Sometimes I stare at other people while waiting in lines, wondering what thoughts, worries, or concerns are drifting in their mind. Some people would rather be at another place. Some people have other things to do during the day. The usual impatient suspects in a long line are those with their arms crossed, an unmistakable frown on their facade, and a foot tapping desperately—as if that were going to make the line go any faster. I wonder what ants think as they line up behind each other with food in their mouths. What makes us any different from ants? The line steadily moves forward, and soon, it’s Alice’s turn. She walks towards the guard sitting next to the box of folders and pronounces her name and personal information clearly.

Alice Elizabeth Blake. Vocation: Cultural History. Origin: Blue District – Northern Union.”

As soon as she mentions the fact that she’s from the Northern Union, she gets the same dubious look that she always gets from residents of the Republic. People point and whisper. It’s not every day that you encounter a Northern native—they are an rarity in these parts. Sometimes people walk away from her when they discover that she comes from a more liberal and devious nation. Other people react in disgust. Once in a blue moon, you might even have the occasional person who is curious about the Northern Union, and they begin to assault Alice with a barrage of questions. But she always keeps her lips tight, being extra careful of not sharing any information of her home with any citizens of the Republic. Despite a few seconds of what seemed like hesitation and resentment, one of the guards standing near the entrance pulls out a dark green box from one of his pockets. He motions Alice to lift up her left hand, and he promptly scans it with the box. The tablet next to the sitting guard soon displays Alice’s picture and loudly enunciates all of her personal information, including her age, her Network code, her DNA structuring sequence, and even her blood type. The screen then displays the number 3274 on the screen in big red letters.

Alright Miss Blake, you’re assigned seat number 377,327. Please grab your customized information packet and proceed to your designated area” replies the guard in a disinterested fashion. It never ceases to amaze me how a human being can seem so void of life. I don’t even want to begin to imagine what training guards must go through before becoming active units. I never see them smile, laugh, and I’ve certainly never seen them express fear. Most of the time they don a stoic persona, and I think that anger and seriousness are the only emotions they are capable of showing. I used to think that most of them were robots or androids, but I once witnessed a guard getting shot about two years ago, while venturing through one of the poverty-stricken areas of our district.

Since Alice’s arrival to Oz, we’ve never once sat together during the Distribution ceremony. The chances that I’d be assigned anywhere near her seat were quite slim, so I was preparing myself to sit next to people that either annoyed me greatly, or that were significantly older or younger than me. Students are typically enrolled in a Center at the age of seven, after taking several aptitude tests administered by the Regime. The only exception to this were the very few students arriving from the Northern Union, or students who transfer from another Center in the Republic—a rare occurrence at Oz, seeing as it was typically viewed as the most useless and impractical Center of the eight. Trainees are required to remain in Oz until the age of twenty-five, when they are deemed absolute experts in their assigned area. Although you are required to stay in Oz dorms during your first couple of years at the center, all students are welcome to move to the adjunct apartments located one block away from the center after the age of sixteen. After commencement at the age of twenty-five, students are assigned a job at any one of the eight boroughs, according to their performance at the training Center and of course, to the good graces of the job assignment committee. Those who were brilliant and lucky were typically assigned a position as a Center instructor or administrator. Those who weren’t as brilliant or just plain unlucky were typically given the most undesirable jobs in the country—which implies years of training gone to waste.

I was next in line.

Levi Thomas Solis. Vocation: Cultural Studies. Origin: North-Eastern Borough – The Republic.”

After the guard scanned my left hand, my information was also announced by the screen, along the depiction of the number 211. Great. I knew that I wasn’t going to sit anywhere near Alice, but now I have a seat that is extremely close to the main podium. Now I can get an even closer look of Chancellor Crawford, who always looks as if he were about to collapse and wither away. I jokingly told Alice once that he must be over one-hundred and twenty years old, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that my statement may not be much of a joke, but rather, a factual statement. I reluctantly grab my information packet and head towards the front rows. I have no idea why I ended up so close to the podium. The first couple of groups are usually assigned to new and transfer students. I prepare myself mentally to sit next to a bunch of anxious seven year olds. Luckily, most of them are nervous out of their mind, so I don’t expect them to cause much commotion. I don’t even expect most of them to talk to me, which is a good thing.

I approach seat 211, and of course, there is a small blond-haired girl with intense cobalt eyes sitting on seat 210. Her legs are shifting erratically, and she has been peeling away on the skin found on the edges of her thumbs. All that left is purple-tinged blood stains and small stumps where her nails used to be. I instantly recalled that feeling of being unsafe. Of looking around me and feeling as if I were being judged by every subject around me. When I transferred to this Center, I was no different from the girl sitting next to me. Contrary to my usual behavior, I decided to help this stranger to calm down. At least it will help the time pass by swiftly.

Don’t be nervous,” I say. “They do the same thing every year. Chancellor Crawford stands in front of the audience, discusses the history of the Republic and the mission of the Center, and then you are free to access the training assignments that were distributed to you.”

She glances at me with those intense blue eyes and gently smiles. “Oh, I am not nervous about my assignments. I’m just not used to being away from home, away from my guardians and away from my home. I guess I’m not really thrilled to be here, that’s all. Plus, I’m bored out of my mind. I’ve been sitting here for over an hour. I always arrive to meetings and ceremonies early. I can’t even fathom the thought of arriving late to a scheduled event. Could you imagine that? My guardians would be so disappointed if I were ever tardy. Well, at least they would be upset if nothing bad prevented me from arriving on time. I sure in that case they would understand! This place looks amazing, does it not? I arrived to the Center yesterday, so I’m still trying to soak everything in.”

Her voice was as gentle as her smile, enthused with the animated spirit of a young child. But she talked way too much, especially for someone her age. Even her vocabulary seemed a little too developed for a newbie. Something tells me that I am going to completely regret reaching out to her. She stretches out her hand towards me. “The name’s Wendy. Wendy Conrad.” I visibly flinch when I hear the name. Wendy is a very rare name. As a matter of fact, I’ve only encountered the name once before, and that was in one of the illegal texts that I downloaded titled Peter and Wendy, written by J.M Barrie. It’s been a while since I’ve read it, but it’s mostly about a boy with the gift of flight who never grows old. He lives in the distant island known as Neverland, and every once in a while, he flies to London to secretly listen to the bedtime stories of Wendy Darling—a young Londoner who lives with her brothers. One night, while listening to a story, Wendy spots Peter, and he somehow loses his shadow. I’m not making this up. After sewing the shadow back on Peter, he invites her to fly away with him to Neverland to be the mother of his gang of friends known as the Lost Boys. Adventure and mischief ensue! I know, this is probably the worst plot summary ever, and to be honest, the story sounds insane. But the tale is absolutely delightful. Too bad it’s on the Regime’s list of banned texts. After all, the idea of people flying away to unknown lands, and the thought of people never aging, seems too fanciful for a society based on reality.

Hey are you Okay?! I said my name’s Wendy Conrad. Do you have a name or are you just going to stay there, shaking my hand? Are you okay? Are you feeling ill? You look a little too old to be a first year. Surely you must’ve been here for a few years already. Unless you are a transfer student. Do they even allow people your age to transfer to another Center? And why would you choose this Center?”

The pace of Wendy’s questions was inducing a sense of nausea that I’ve never felt before. After processing the drill of questions during a few seconds of silence, I finally open my mouth. “Yeah, I’m a transfer student, but I transferred to this Center years ago. Sorry I spaced out, I just don’t think I’ve ever heard your name before. I’m Levi Solis.”

Pardon me?” replied Wendy with a confused face.

Levi. Well, I guess my name is as rare as yours is.”

What does that name even mean?” replied Wendy, honestly baffled.

My guardians told me that it means ‘joined in harmony,’ or something like that. I guess they had a lot of expectations of me when they chose me as their neonate. They told me that it comes from an ancient religion known as Hebrew, which no longer exists in this part of the world. My guardians tried to explain it to me once, telling me that I was meant to be the glue that keeps people together, but I was too young to fully get what they were saying. I guess nowadays I feel like anything but a person who brings people together.” I felt surprisingly talkative to this stranger I just met. She might have seemed annoying, but there was something about her youth that seemed generous and trustworthy. Here I am blabbing away just as much as she was. Since when did I become such a social butterfly?

Well, I like your name. I actually like it a lot. I’m actually glad my parents named me Wendy. I don’t think I’ve ever met another person with my name. Did you know that my parents made up the name? They wanted to assure that I was unique. I guess both of our parents had similar visions in mind! Your name is nice. It has a nice rhythm to it. Levi. Lee-Vie. LE-VI.” Wendy began to pronounce my name carefully over and over again. This was going to be a long morning. I couldn’t help but think that Wendy’s parents were lying to her when they said they came up with her name on their very own. They must’ve read Peter and Wendy before and were unwilling to admit it. Either that, or they truly did make up the name on their own, which comes to show that originality truly is dead this day and age.

After a few seconds of repeating my name, she looks at me. “So what Borough are you from?” she asks.

I’m from the North-Eastern Borough, near the coastal section. My guardians’ house was only about ten minutes away from the beach. How about you?” I ask.

I’m from the great Southern Borough!” Wendy was beaming with pride as she uttered her Borough of origin. People from this area were known for being very proud of their roots and origins, which is unsurprising seeing as their ancestors were known for initiating the the Second Civil War back in the day. I should’ve known that she was from the Borough based on her accent. My accent is somewhat similar to hers, but without a doubt, hers is heavily inflected and her vowels seem to stretch out a bit more.

Oh, how is it over there in the South?” I ask.

Things are amazing. Everything is so neat, pristine, and pure. I was rather upset when I was told I was being sent to this Center. After all, everyone knows that this is the most liberal Center in the Republic. My guardians once told me that they thought the Republic would be a better place if this Center were shut down. I used to agree with them, but just look at where I’m sitting right now. I always dreamed of making them proud. Now I’m going to be spending more than a decade here.”

Oh please, it’s not that liberal. There are plenty of rules, restrictions, and regulations here. You’ll definitely notice that once you’re here for a while.”

Yeah, but here you can get away with way more. We follow a very strict code of conduct in the South. We like order. We thrive on the values of leadership and dignity. We pride ourselves on being the most advanced society by looking forward, not by gluing ourselves to the past. The past is nothing but a dirty scourge that is better left untouched. It makes me ill to think that we will be forced to relive it constantly in this Center.” She was beginning to sound like one of the guards that haunt the premises. I think we have a future Regime administrator in the midst.

Don’t sound so disappointed. Things aren’t that bad here. I think you’ll grow to love this Center. Sure, some training sessions are boring and repetitive, but you’ll come to see that learning about the past is key to understanding the present. I feel like I’m part of a secret society who knows and understands why the world works the way it does. We get to know things that other people can’t even begin to fathom.” Wow, I’m beginning to sound like an Oz fan boy. I guess I have a greater attachment to this place than I’m willing to admit.

Wendy shrugs her shoulders. “I can’t believe I performed so miserably at the aptitude tests. My guardians enrolled me in a special pre-training course at the age of three to try and get me into one of the best Centers. I guess my nerves got the best of me. I only excelled in the color-matching exercises for some reason and the administrators assumed that I had a knack for art. Now here I am, enrolled in Artistic Studies. I’m sure I’ll make a grand living learning how to mold ceramic figurines and using finger paints. Master pottery today, rule the world tomorrow.” The resentment in her voice was shocking, especially when coming from the mouth and mind of a seven year old. I imagine that her guardians were beyond disappointment with her placement. Isn’t that the problem with most parents, though? How they are constantly trying to mold us into miniature versions of themselves? Maybe Wendy really does have a knack for art, but they’ve completely destroyed her ability to come to this realization.

You don’t really have to take a practical route when doing Artistic Studies. Plus, you’re free to change to any other vocation within this Center if you want. Don’t start limiting yourself during your first year. Even though you feel like you’re restricted by coming here, you still have options. The ability to make choices can be quite liberating if you think about it.” I do my best to encourage her.

She shrugs again. “Who cares, it’s not like we choose our profession at the end of our training anyway. I’ll probably end up fat and alone, working in some crummy administrative office. It’s not fair. We are raised to think that the world is our oyster, only to realize that the oyster is clamped shut, unable to open or budge. What’s the point of possessing a pearl if you’re unable to show it to the world?” Wendy crosses her arms and looks away. I wonder who put those ideas in her head? That wording does not sound like it was produced by someone her age. I don’t think I’ve ever met somebody so pessimistic—and what’s creepy is that she masks the pessimism with an air of cheeriness.

I want to come up with another encouraging reply, but I say nothing. I just sit there, awkwardly, imagining her overweight and alone, living with two cats and hating everything that Oz stands for. I know what it’s like to be unhappy with your assigned Center. At least I had the opportunity to change my life. Wendy, on the other hand, was assigned to the lowest ranking Center, so she has no chances of changing her career path. She is doomed to be stuck here. She is doomed to disappoint her parents and herself. That’s way more than any seven year old should have to deal with. What will these seeds of resent and disappointment do to Wendy once they are fully bloomed? Is it possible that she will learn to love this place, or will this disappointment prevent any change from happening?

About two minutes were left for the distribution ceremony to begin. I noticed that the seat next to me left, labeled 212, was still empty. Great! More room for me, and less chances of another annoying first year sitting on my side. All I need as another Wendy to sit on my left, incessantly complaining about the woes, trials, and tribulations of being assigned to train at Oz. I stretch my legs, place my information packet on the empty space. I zone out into nothingness, getting ready for Chancellor Crawford to give his usual speech. I cross my arms behind my neck, take a deep breath, and shut me eyes for a few seconds.

Excuse me, but I think your packet is on my seat.”

I open my eyes and look up. A guy, a few centimeters taller than me, stands above me, flashing a timid smile. I can immediately tell that he is not a first year. His short chestnut hair, with flecks of red and blonde, rests lightly on his head, styled in a carefully planned yet modest fashion. His rosy cheeks and chin are covered in light stubble. He seemed very familiar at first, and that’s when I noticed his eyes. You would think we were family based on our eye color, a color which seems to be as rare as my name. At first glance, they seem to be hazel colored—a light, honey color verging on yellow. But the closer you watch, the more you begin to notice flecks of gold, black, tan, and green embedded within the iris. When your head shifts, the color of the eyes begins to shift from gold, to coffee, to emerald, giving the illusion that his chameleonic eyes are indecisive when it comes to choosing a stable font. My eye color is exactly the same, but this is difficult to notice most of the time due to the almond shape my eyes have. But his eyes are wide, expressive, and intense to the point that they make me feel slightly uncomfortable.

Due to the prominence of genetic manipulation a few decades ago, life givers, the people in charge of cultivating human embryos in the Republic, decided to create children with green, blue, or even purple eyes. Nearly everyone at Oz has intense blue or purple eyes, and these colors are quite uniform. Darker shades of eye color—blacks, browns, grays—became a rarity, mostly because of their association with lower classes, and especially due to the fact that genetic manipulation is prohibited in the Northern Union, making dark eye colors way more common than they are here. In some cases, some children are intended to have light-colored eyes when created, but unexpected mutations take place and the child ends up having dark-colored eyes. Eyes with multiple colors, or eyes with multiple shades of coloring, are virtually unheard of.

My guardians chose me specifically because of my eye color. They said it made me “one-of-a-kind.” The more I think about it, the more I notice that my guardians were obsessed with the concept of uniqueness. My name, my eye color. I guess they were always expecting me to do something different in life, which is weird given the Republic’s crave for uniformity. I actually liked my eye color a lot. It made me feel special. Exceptional. Yet, I guess I was not as exceptional as I thought I was. Here is another person, with eyes identical to mine, staring right back at me. Besides our eye color, we are different in almost every other aspect. I’m a couple of centimeters shorter than he is, my skin is about a shade darker than his light skin, my hair is dark and wavy, and I’ve barely even begun to grow a beard.

First the girl with the uncommon name, and now the guy with the exceptional eye color. Today seems to be a day of infrequencies, something that is more than welcome in the wonderful land of Oz. I lift my packet off the seat. “Sorry about that. Thought that you weren’t going to show up.” He nods and quietly sits down.

Wendy immediately notices the new guy’s arrival. You can tell by the way she arches her eyebrows up that she is definitely interested in the arrival of this stranger. Wait, isn’t she only seven? Isn’t she a little young to be interested in men this way, especially a guy who can easily be almost three times her age? “Hi there, handsome! What’s your name? I’m Wendy Conrad! You look lost. Are you new around here? I’m a first-year student. Not too excited about being assigned here, but I guess I have no other choice. Why are you so quiet? By the way, why haven’t you told me your name yet?” She doesn’t even give the poor guy a chance to breathe.

He turns around, but keeps his eyes locked on me for a second. He opens his mouth to answer, but Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture began to blast through the speakers as the lights grew dim. You can tell that our chancellor has a penchant for Tchaikovsky, and his use of the 1812 Overture for his entrance into public affairs has been played out to the point of cliché. Oz has the only chancellor that demands an entrance with music, which makes sense because Oz is, after all, a training center devoted to culture and communication. His entrances do nothing to help our reputation, though.

Rising towards the podium is Chancellor Crawford. His body looks even frailer then when I last saw him. He wears his usual dark, double breasted navy suit with a powder blue rose lapelled delicately on the right side of his chest. Of course, he wears the avocado colored cape he always wears to Distribution ceremonies. We never expected the ruler of Oz to make a public appearance without something green on his body. For a man who dresses so extravagantly and who demands music for his entrance, he is quite serious and stern. He stares at us quietly with his eyes, whose color matches that of the rose on his chest. His skin looks leathery and tight. He’s gotten so many surgical procedures done that he barely looks human anymore. Alice once made a remark that he looks like ape genitals. I’ve never seen ape genitals before, but that didn’t stop me from unleashing a roaring laughter. The thought of that joke made me chuckle. The stranger on seat 212 immediately began staring at me as the chuckles became harder to contain. I cover my mouth and force myself to concentrate on the stage. Chancellor Crawford pulls out a small role of parchment from the inner part of his suit, and he begins to unravel it.

I get goosebumps. Not from the old and tired spectacle playing in front of me. But rather, because of that distinctive sensation you get one someone is staring at you. I slowly shift my eyes to the right. Wendy has her sight glued to Chancellor Crawford as he struggles to unravel the parchment in front of him. Why he hasn’t transitioned to the use of a tablet computer is beyond me. I turn my head to the left and I catch 212 quickly turning his glance from me to the chancellor. Why was he still staring at me, even when I was no longer chuckling? I guess it is strange to see an unfamiliar face laughing for no apparent reason. A better question at this point is why he was pretending not to stare at me. I look forward to the stage and I notice that Crawford has finally managed to unravel the parchment. He says the same tired speech that he says every semester, with a couple of modifications of course. His booming and raspy voice permeates the great hall.

Welcome trainees, old and new, to the winter semester of the 212nd year of liberation. Yes, it has been 212 years since the foundation of the Republic and the establishment of the Regime. 212 years since we established ourselves as a self-sufficient country founded upon the virtues of purity and dignity. A country based upon the natural laws that were bestowed upon us as human beings. Since our segregation from the former United States of America, now simply known as the Northern Union, we have prospered as a moral nation, a nation free of corruption, a nation free of decay, a nation free from disorder. We are here today because our ancestors, who envisioned our current state as a future possibility, bravely fought the oppressors in the Second Civil War. We are here today to become the people that they wanted us to be; no, the people that we need to be, in order to continue prospering. We are here…”

My Network armlet lightly vibrates and glows. It’s a message from Alice.

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Gag. No wonder they hate me. My country deviates from the virtues of purity and dignity. Woe is me.

I chuckle lightly and respond, cautious not to draw too much attention.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): I always knew you were a scoundrel. Get out of my country, now! The Republic will becomes pure once again!

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Oh, please. You know they love having me here. There’s nothing more pleasing to the Republic than a convert from the Northern Union.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): You are a prime example of the ideal convert. May we one day develop the intellect and the moral fiber to follow your example, princess Blake.

ALICE ELIZABETH BLAKE (6000259881): Quit bantering, you unworthy peasant, and pay attention to the ceremony. Your highness has not had her morning coffee and it’s taking every ounce of will to stay awake.

LEVI THOMAS SOLIS (3768792110): Looks like someone had a whopping bowl of bitchy-o’s in place of her coffee this morning. Never overestimate the power of substitutions!

As I click send, I look quickly to my left and I notice that 212 was snooping at my message because he was laughing at my exchange with Alice. I shoot a dirty look at him, but he is no longer paying attention to me or my Network armlet. I once again look at Chancellor Crawford, noticing that he is speaking of Oz rather than the foundation of our glorious nation.

“…which is why the Regime established eight training centers across the Republic, in order to ensure that all citizens in the workforce, despite differences of profession, continue to uphold these values. Most of you were chosen to train here, and a couple of you graciously decided to transfer here. The Culture and Communications Center, affectionately referred to as Triple C by the members of our community, houses the most creative, intuitive, and imaginative thinkers within the Republic. Pupils at this Center hone their critical thinking skills, their historical awareness, their ability to create and replicate, and their familiarity with great works of the human mind in order to better understand the world that we live in. You’ll not only learn about yourself in Triple C, but you will also learn about everything that makes a human mind great and inimitable.”

Chancellor Crawford coughs casually. He pauses to take a sip of water. After wiping his chin with a velvet handkerchief, he continues his spiel. “As most of you should know by now, Triple C is divided into three schools: History, which focuses on the analysis of past events in order to comprehend our current condition; Communications and Arts, which focuses on how diverse mediums facilitate the exchange of ideas; and Cultural Studies, which focuses on the historical study of creative objects crafted by the human mind, and what makes them outstanding or beautiful.”

The aims of Oz are so different from those of the other Centers. I should know, because at the age of twelve, I transferred from the SSC to Oz. The SSC is the Science and Society center located in my home Borough, the North-East. Transfers from one center to another are no easy feat, but I think my stubbornness played a major role in the administration’s decision. Actually, all of the Centers are ranked by the Regime according to usefulness and intellectual demand. The Technology and Engineering Center, unsurprisingly, has been ranked number one for the past three decades. Science and Society is currently ranked number two. The third most prestigious center is the Medicine and Pharmaceuticals Center. Admission into any one of these is one of the greatest honors that a citizen from the Republic can receive. When citizens of the Republic are six years old, we take an aptitude test with a theoretical and a practical component. Some exercises are the typical math problems you encounter in most aptitude texts. Other tests require you to arrange colored blocks in a particular order, or to identify fruits according to smell. There is even a small obstacle course that all of us have to complete.

Many subjects don’t really exceed at these tests, which is unsurprising because there is only so much intellectual and physical development that you can expect from a six-year old. When a subject excels in a particular area, they are sent to the center that best cultivates that ability. Subjects with aptitude in most areas are sent to high-ranking centers, while subjects that don’t excel in any areas are sent either to Oz or the Military Training Center. Many were shocked and displeased with my choice to transfer to Oz. You can transfer to a Center that is below the ranking of your assigned one at any given time. But nobody, under any circumstance, can ever transfer to a center with a higher ranking. Therefore, after transferring to Oz, there was no turning back. My guardians were so upset with my transfer that they stopped speaking to me. It’s been over six years since I’ve last spoken to them.

“…I bid you all farewell, and may you continue to uphold the values and virtues of our great and powerful Republic. Thank you.” The Chancellor rolls up the piece of parchment and places it in his breast pocket.

I stand up and join the rest of the crowd in applause. Many people begin to leave in order to avoid the stampede of trainees leaving the building. Wendy is standing on her chair, jumping up and down, squealing with excitement. So much for the nerves caused by being away from home for the first time and her displeasure with the Center. I have to admit, Chancellor Crawford is quite the master when it comes to rhetoric, so it’s no surprise that his words somehow managed to touch Wendy deeply, as seen by her enthusiastic applause. I look to my left and noticed that 212 was no longer there. His information packet was left behind on his seat. Did he forget his packet, or did he leave it there deliberately? I pick up the packet and look for the name on top spelled in bold letters: Nathaniel Patrick Husher – Cultural Studies. Apparently, Nathaniel and I not only have the same eye color, but we’re also in the exact same school and concentration. Why did he leave his packet behind? Isn’t he interested in knowing what training courses he was assigned this semester?

I tuck his packet into my bag, and I open my own packet to see what courses I was assigned. Inside, a small piece of light blue parchment was rolled, inscribed with the confirmation code I need to access my schedule through the Network. After accessing the CCC application in my Network armlet, I punch in the twelve digit code and a list of 3 courses is projected from my armlet:

  • ENGL00602 – Fictions of Growth and Development II – Monday, Tuesday (8:00-10:00) – Inst. Grey
  • CULT46601 – Gender and the Republic – Wednesday, Thursday (9:00-11:00) – Inst. Anderson
  • CULT45665 – Cultural Practicum: Culinary Arts – Friday (13:00-17:00) – Inst. Ryan

I groan when I see that I was assigned Fictions of Development II with Grey for my English language requirement. I took the first part about four semesters ago. He wasn’t really a terrible professor, but it was truly one of the most boring training sessions that I’ve ever taken in my life. We mostly read various nineteenth century texts that managed to survive the Scourge of Alexandria, which dealt mostly with how young men and women engaged in excruciatingly long journeys in order to identify their true moral and spiritual selves. Instructor Grey told us that nineteenth century texts are really valued by the Republic, mostly because they were deemed to be handbooks for modest and appropriate behavior, and also, because characters who deviate from societal expectations are usually punished towards the text’s conclusion. Most of the texts that we read were too long and bizarre. There was this one novel I read… I can’t quite remember the name… but it dealt with a young woman named Tess who gets raped. She gets pregnant, loses her child, but she is forever scorned for being an impure woman. She ends up marrying a man, only to run away later on with another man who she deems she will be happier with. What happens towards the end? She is punished, of course, for her infidelity, and the novel ends with her execution. Such a lovely ending, isn’t it?

On the other hand, I was genuinely excited with my cultural-historical requirement, Gender and the Republic, because although I’ve heard much about gender and sexual deviance from films and television, I haven’t had much of a chance to learn about it from an academic perspective. We all have to take a “practical” course every semester, and I guess learning how to cook decent meals would be a good skill to develop, especially since I rarely prepare my own meals and choose to eat at the dining hall instead. I double-tap on the screen to put my armlet into sleep mode, and I head out of the great hall to search for Alice.

Copyright © 2013 by Angel Daniel Matos

All rights reserved. This post or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

On YA Novels with Male Bisexuality – Eddie De Oliveira’s “Lucky”

Front cover of Eddie de Oliveira's Lucky

Front cover of Eddie De Oliveira’s Lucky

As YA author Malinda Lo once pointed out in her wonderful discussion of bisexual characters in YA literature, “representations of bisexual characters remain few and far between.” This, as Lo pointed out, has a lot to do with the perception of bisexuality in contemporary society, where it is often viewed as an “excuse” for admitting one’s homosexuality, or it is viewed as a “lifestyle” embraced by people who are supposedly greedy or that take sexual promiscuity to the extreme. Society has a long way to go in terms of veering away from these stereotypes.

Male bisexuality in YA fiction is extremely scarce. Lo points out Cassandra Clare’s series as one of the only examples of male bisexuality within the genre (that she could think of). In 2011, Alex Sanchez, one of the most known authors of gay YA fiction, published his novel Boyfriends with Girlfriends, which also contains a representation of bisexuality that is designed to directly challenge the preconceived notions of individuals who are attracted to both men and women (and in my opinion, it is a fantastic introduction to the hardships that bisexual individuals face).

One of the lesser known novels that directly deals with issues of male bisexuality is Eddie De Oliveira’s Lucky, originally published by Scholastic in 2004. Taking place in England (as made obvious by the abundance of British slang peppered throughout the text), the novel focuses on Sam, the protagonist, who is trying to come to grips with his attraction to both men and woman throughout his first year of college. This trial is made much more difficult when he meets Toby, a classmate who has dated both men and women in the past, and who is not afraid to admit it.

The novel, in many ways, follows many of the steps that are seen in the coming out story: there’s a moment of ignorance, a moment of realization, the crisis, the trials, the step out of the closet, and acceptance. All-in-all, I thought the novel was an entertaining and interesting read, although I foresee that some readers may have a couple of issues with it.

Many readers of this novel might be upset when they realize that the main character rarely explores his attraction to men through physical means, but rather, he purely deliberates it through thought and emotion. The character makes his attraction to men explicit, but throughout the entire novel, he does not once kiss another man (and I mean a kiss… not a peck on the cheek). It seems that every time he comes close to achieving some sexual intimacy with another male character, “something” happens.

Despite the fact that Sam’s sexual attraction to men is never acted upon, he does express said attraction, and it bothers him to the point of torture. In a moment where he reaches the climax of his sexual crisis, Sam asks himself:

…did I fancy boys and girls?–or did I just like boys a lot as friends, or did I feel closer to them than girls, and does sex define sexuality, and if I wanted to hug and hold hands but nothing more, did that make me gay or bi? My state of mind was as tangled as a bowl of spaghetti. (130)

Sam constantly denies his attraction to men, this this denial is challenged when he begins to develop an attraction to Toby; an attraction that becomes unbearable once Toby begins to date a woman named Lucy. Seeing Toby together with Lucy drives Sam into fits of rage and jealously, and he ultimately comes to grips with his attraction to both genders due to a prolonged series of events (which I’m not going to spoil here).

Personally speaking, I thought the novel was overall touching and funny, although there are times when I felt that the plot became a bit repetitive, especially when it came to the characters uncontrollable frustration as he dealt with his emerging sexuality and the presence of countless football matches (I’m a disaster when it comes to understanding sports). These football matches, however, are important when it comes to highlighting the patriarchal and chauvinistic ideologies that torment the main character, and that influence his decision to stay in the closet.

The novel is designed to actively contest the stereotypes of bisexuality in hopes of providing the reader with a sense of enlightenment. This contestation is mostly illustrated through Sam’s friends, particularly his oldest friend Pod, who is unable to understand the nature of Sam’s attraction to men and women:

“All right, I’ll tell you what I think. I think I’m straight. I’ve always liked girls. I think Oscar Wilde was gay, he always liked boys. I don’t get how Sam can be both. Sounds to me like he’s hedging his bets. Can’t make his mind up. It’s worse than just being gay, you know. It’s slagging.” (156)

In this instance, the novel taps into the sentiments and attitudes that many people present when they directly confront the issue of bisexuality. Interestingly, Pod considers bisexuality to be a greater offence than gayness because according to him, it expresses a degree of indecision and of selfishness. The novel accurately portrays the social hierarchy that exists in terms of sexual expression, in which gayness and lesbianism are supposedly more tolerable than other expressions of sexual identity such as bisexuality and transgenderism.

I thought that De Oliveira greatly handled the representation of bisexuality in the novel, especially when it came to crafting an ending that doesn’t necessarily fall into glamour or unnecessary melodrama that is usually seen in middlebrow fiction. As a matter of fact, the novel’s ending presents the most memorable and emancipatory moment in the entire text, and I think it will help most readers get over some of the challenges of reading the novel (chiefly the lack of overt male intimacy and the overabundance of the motif of football).

All in all, De Oliveira’s text should be approached as a groundbreaking work within the realm of YA fiction, for its portrayal of male bisexuality in a positive albeit realistic fashion–particularly when male bisexuality in the genre is virtually nonexistent. The novel entertains, and it also educates without seeming overly pedantic (which is a plus). If like the main character, you are looking to “trying something new” (239) within the landscape of LGBTQ YA fiction, you should definitely give Lucky a read.

Primary Source:

De Oliveira, Eddie. Lucky. New York: Scholastic Inc., 2004. Print.

“On YA Novels with Male Bisexuality – Eddie De Oliveira’s Lucky” was originally published at on June 9th, 2013.

My Ultimate Reading Challenge – The Reading List for My PhD Candidacy Examinations


Part of the requirements for the doctoral degree in English at the University of Notre Dame are written and oral exams (which I will take in March of 2014). The exams are a requirement that demonstrate that all doctoral students have in-depth knowledge of a major field, a secondary field, and a literary theory/methodology, in order to assure that we are thoroughly prepared for teaching and dissertation writing. For these exams, we are all required to construct a reading list for three areas of specialization. The list for our major field should contain approximately 75 works, whereas the reading lists for our secondary field and the literary theory/methodology should contain about 50 works each–for a grand total of about 175 works. This means that we have about ten months to read and familiarize ourselves with these works. Yikes!

After a lot of thought and research, I have decided that my major field will be Contemporary American Literature (1945-Present). My secondary field will be Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, and Queer (LGBTQ) Literature, and my literary theory/methodology will be Queer Materiality (which fuses readings within the areas of Queer Theory, Queer Cultural Studies, and the Materiality/Sociology of Texts). Professors Susan Cannon Harris (chair), Kinohi Nishikawa, Matt Wilkens, and Barry McCrea have graciously agreed to be part of my examination committee. I am very thankful fo their support and their interest in my project. The lists below were constructed thanks to my committee’s  advice and input, and thanks to extended periods of online and library research. What I have below is a description of each area, along with the reading list that I developed for this list.

Now, in terms of making this a challenge, for every single work that I read, I plan to write a blog post with my thoughts, opinions, and concerns about the work–think of these posts as mini book reviews. If all goes as planned, I should have a total of 176 posts related to my candidacy exams. Each time I write one of these reviews, I will update this post and provide links to the review next to the works’ title. Not only will this help me keep track of what I have read, but it will allow me to share my thoughts an opinions of these texts with the world. Wish me luck!


(Historical Field)

These works are typically approached as Post-World War and postmodern, and the list has a heavy emphasis on works published between the 40s and the 60s. Although my primary interest is in the area of gay fiction, I have decided to make contemporary American literature my primary field seeing as it is a more marketable area within the field of English and literary studies. I would claim that my main area of expertise within this area is the coming-of-age narrative, particularly focusing on issues of gender and sexuality in the coming-of-age process. Seeing as texts that are typically dubbed coming-of-age narratives are usually concerned with readers’ self-identification with characters in the text, many items in this list are works that would be considered “middlebrow.” The items included in all of my sub-lists are works that reflect the aforementioned themes within an American and postmodern context.

I am interested in determining whether gendered or queer issues manifest in coming-of-age texts that are not typically approached as queer—thus, I deliberately avoided the inclusion of queer texts within the novels section of this list, as they are included within my second list on LGBTQ fiction. In addition to the notion of “coming-of-age” and gender, I am also invested in the marketing and sociology of texts within a “globalized” postmodern American context. Thus, in conjunction with coming-of-age texts, I have also included novels that have helped to shape the globalized American literary landscape that we live in today—which is why my young adult fiction section also includes important global novels that have had a major impact on the young adult market.

I.A – Novels

  1. Alice Walker. The Color Purple (1982)
  2. Ana Castillo. So Far From God (1993)
  3. Art Spiegelman. Maus I: My Father Bleeds History (1986)
  4. Bret Easton Ellis. American Psycho (1991)
  5. Cristina Carcia. Dreaming in Cuban (1992)
  6. David Foster Wallace. Infinite Jest (1996)
  7. Don Delillo. White Noise (1985)
  8. James Baldwin. Go Tell It on the Mountain (1953)
  9. Jack Kerouac. On the Road (1957)
  10. Jonathan Safran Foer. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (2005)
  11. Joseph Heller. Catch-22 (1961)
  12. Junot Díaz. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2007)
  13. Kurt Vonnegut. Slaughterhouse-Five (1969)
  14. Matthew Quick. Silver Linings Playbook (2010)
  15. Philip K. Dick. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968)
  16. Ralph Ellison. Invisible Man (1952)
  17. Sandra Cisneros. The House on Mango Street (1984)
  18. Sylvia Plath. The Bell Jar (1963)
  19. Thomas Pynchon. Gravity’s Rainbow (1973)
  20. Toni Morrison. Beloved (1987)
  21. Vladimir Nabokov. Lolita (1955)

I.B – Short Stories

  1. Abraham Rodriguez. “Boy Without A Flag” (1992)
  2. Anne Proulx. “Brokeback Mountain” (1997)
  3. James Baldwin. “Sonny’s Blues” (1957)
  4. John Barth. “Lost in the Funhouse” (1968)
  5. John Updike. Pigeon Feathers (1962)
  6. Norman Mailer. “The Man Who Studied Yoga” (1959)
  7. Raymond Carver. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love (1981)
  8. Sandra Cisneros. Woman Hollering Creek: The Collection (1991)

I.C – Drama

  1. Amiri Baraka. Dutchman (1964)
  2. Arthur Miller. Death of a Salesman (1949)
  3. Arthur Miller. A View from the Bridge (1955)
  4. August Wilson. The Piano Lesson (1990)
  5. David Henry Hwang. M. Butterfly (1986)
  6. Edward Albee. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1962)
  7. Eugene O’Neill. Bound East for Cardiff (1914). Click here for my discussion of this O’Neill play.
  8. Eugene O’Neill. The Hairy Ape (1922)
  9. Eugene O’Neill. Long Day’s Journey into Night (1956)
  10. John Guare. Six Degrees of Separation (1990)
  11. Lorraine Hansberry. A Raisin in the Sun (1959)
  12. Tennessee Williams. Camino Real (1953)
  13. Tennessee Williams. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1955)
  14. Tony Kushner. Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes (1993)
  15. William Friedkin. The Boys in the Band (1970)

I.D – Poetry

  1. Adrienne Rich. An Atlas of the Difficult World (1991)
  2. Allen Ginsberg. Howl and Other Poems (1956)
  3. Elizabeth Bishop. The Complete Poems (1984)
  4. Frank O’Hara. The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara (1995)
  5. John Ashberry. Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1976)
  6. Sylvia Plath. Ariel (1965)

I.E-1 – Young Adult Novels (Supplementary List)

  1. Daniel Keyes. Flowers for Algernon (1958). Click here for my discussion of Keyes’ novel.
  2. Harper Lee. To Kill a Mockingbird (1960)
  3. J.D. Salinger. The Catcher in the Rye (1951)
  4. John Corey Whaley. Where Things Come Back (2011). Click here for my discussion of Whaley’s novel.
  5. John Green. Looking for Alaska (2005)
  6. Judy Blume. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (1970)
  7. Judy Blume. Then Again, Maybe I Won’t (1971)
  8. Lois Lowry. The Giver (1993)
  9. Madeleine L’Engle. A Wrinkle in Time (1962)
  10. Orson Scott Card. Ender’s Game (1985)
  11. Robert Cormier. The Chocolate War (1974)
  12. Scott Westerfield. Uglies (2005)
  13. S.E. Hinton. The Outsiders (1967)
  14. Sherman Alexie. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)
  15. Stephanie Meyer. Twilight (2005)
  16. Stephen Chbosky. The Perks of Being a Wallflower (1999). Click here for my discussion of Chbosky’s novel.
  17. Suzanne Collins. The Hunger Games (2008)

I.E-2 – Global Young Adult Novels

  1. Diana Wynne Jones. Howl’s Moving Castle (1986)
  2. Douglas Adams. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (1979)
  3. J.K. Rowling. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (1997). Click here for my discussion of Rowling’s novel.
  4. Mark Haddon. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (2004)
  5. Philip Pullman. The Golden Compass (1995)
  6. T.H. White. The Once and Future King (1958)

I.F – Criticism

  1. Fredric Jameson. Postmodernism, or, the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (1990)
  2. Joan L. Knickerbocker, Martha A. Bruggeman, James A. Rycik. Literature for Young Adults: Books (and More) for Contemporary Readers (2012)
  3. Mark McGurl. The Program Era: Postwar Fiction and the Rise of Creative Writing (2011)
  4. Michael Cart. From Romance to Realism: Fifty Years of Growth and Change in Young Adult Literature (2010)
  5. Stuart Sim. The Routledge Companion to Postmodernism (2011)
  6. Richard Gray. A History of American Literature (2011)


(Special Topic Field)

As of now, I envision my dissertation project as an analysis of the intersection between the areas of fiction, queer theory, and middlebrow culture. Part of my focus will be the concept of coming out and concealment, not only in terms of a novel’s content, but also in terms of its marketing and design. Thus, my project will ultimately have a dual focus in that I will pay close attention to matters of queerness and the closet as applied to the coming-of-age narrative and the materiality of the books themselves, delving later on into a discussion of how the digital age has expanded (or perhaps even shattered) the limits of this, as Sedgwick would put it, queer space. In due course, I want to present myself as a scholar who is well versed in the realm of novels that deal directly with LGBTQ concerns, issues, and representations. My hope is that in addition to working with contemporary American novels, I will ultimately be able to teach classes focused exclusively on LGBTQ fiction. With this in mind, although this list will focus heavily on contemporary fiction published after the “gay boom” in the late 90s up to the present day, I also want to develop a historical awareness of the novels and works that paved the way towards a possible market of LGBTQ fiction—especially novels that were published prior to the 1969 Stonewall Riots.

Although in my past work I have focused heavily on issues and concerns pertaining to the male tradition of gay literature, I am seeking to expand my current scope of queer texts by including a healthy sample of texts within lesbian, transgender, bisexual, transsexual, and intersex traditions (even though the gay male tradition is far more prevalent). Keeping in line with my interest in coming-of-age fiction and issues of materiality, a large portion of these LGBTQ texts are classified within the young adult genre—especially when considering that in today’s literary market, young adult fiction is the genre in which queer issues have been able to flourish, due primarily to its middlebrow and so-called didactic nature. Seeing as LGBTQ fiction can, to some extent, be considered a niche market, I have decided to approach this genre from a global Anglophone rather than a purely American perspective in order to determine how queer and coming-out narratives, in addition to the books’ marketing, are influenced by their specific geographical locations.

II. A – LGBTQ Novels and Prose

  1. Achy Obejas. Memory Mambo (1996)
  2. Alan Hollinghusrt. The Line of Beauty (2004)
  3. Alison Bechdel. Fun Home (2006)
  4. Armistead Maupin. Tales of the City (1978)
  5. Barry McCrea. The First Verse (2005)
  6. Bret Easton Ellis. The Rules of Attraction (1987)
  7. Christopher Isherwood. A Single Man (1964)
  8. Colm Tóibín. The Blackwater Lightship (1999)
  9. Djuna Barnes. Nightwood (1936)
  10. Dorothy Allison. Bastard Out of Carolina (1992)
  11. E.M. Forster. Maurice (1971)
  12. Edmund White. A Boy’s Own Story (1982)
  13. Evelyn Waugh. Brideshead Revisited (1945)
  14. James Baldwin. Giovanni’s Room (1956)
  15. Jamie O’Neill. At Swim, Two Boys (2001)
  16. Jeanette Winterson. Oranges are Not the Only Fruit (1985)
  17. Jeanette Winterson. Written on the Body (1994)
  18. Jeffrey Eugenides. Middlesex (2002)
  19. Leslie Feinberg. Stone Butch Blues (2003)
  20. Melvin Dixon. Vanishing Rooms (1991)
  21. Michael Chabon. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay (2000)
  22. Michael Cunningham. A Home at the End of the World (1990)
  23. Michael Cunningham. The Hours (1998). Click here for my discussion of Cunningham’s novel.
  24. Patrick McCabe. Breakfast on Pluto (1998)
  25. Radclyffe Hall. The Well of Loneliness (1928)
  26. Rita Mae Brown. Rubyfruit Jungle (1973)
  27. Sarah Waters. Tipping the Velvet (1998)
  28. Scott Heim. Mysterious Skin (2005)

II.B – LGBTQ Young Adult Fiction

  1. Alex Sanchez. Rainbow Boys (2001)
  2. Benjamin Alire Sáenz. Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe (2012)
  3. Brent Hartinger. Geography Club (2003)
  4. Brian Katcher. Almost Perfect (2009)
  5. David Levithan. Boy Meets Boy (2003)
  6. Eddie De Oliveira. Lucky (2004). Click here for my discussion of De Oliveira’s novel.
  7. Ellen Wittlinger. Hard Love (2001)
  8. Ellen Wittlinger. Parrotfish (2011)
  9. J.C. Lillis. How to Repair a Mechanical Heart (2012)
  10. J.M. Colail. Wes and Toren (2009)
  11. John Donovan. I’ll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip (1969) – Click here for my review of Donovan’s novel. 
  12. John Green and David Levithan. Will Grayson, Will Grayson (2010)
  13. Julie Anne Peters. Luna (2006)
  14. Justin Torres. We the Animals (2011). Click here for my discussion of Torres’ novel. 
  15. Martin Wilson. What They Always Tell Us (2009). Click here for my discussion of Wilson’s novel.
  16. Nancy Garden. Annie on My Mind (1982)
  17. Nick Burd. The Vast Fields of Ordinary (2009)
  18. Perry Moore. Hero (2007)

II.C – LGBTQ History and Criticism

  1. Christopher Bram. Eminent Outlaws: The Gay Writers Who Changed America (2012)
  2. Claude J. Summers. Gay and Lesbian Literary Heritage (2002)
  3. Kenneth B. Kidd and Michelle Ann Abate. Over the Rainbow: Queer Children’s and Young Adult Literature (2011)
  4. Michael Cart and Christine Jenkins. The Heart Has its Reasons: Young Adult Literature with Gay/Lesbian/Queer Content, 1969-2004. (2006)


(Theoretical/Methodological Field) 

Seeing as my dissertation project will focus on issues such as coming out, concealment, confession, circulation, and distribution, immersion in the realms of queer theory and the sociology/materiality of texts will be crucial to my study. The fusion between queer theory and the materiality/sociology of texts is one that has been vastly underexplored within studies of gay fiction, and in my estimation, this is due primarily to the fact that the aims of these studies, at first, seem radically different. Queer theory problematizes the male/female binaries while in turn addressing other dichotomies within the domains of sexuality and pluralistic identities. Queer theory approaches identity, as Jonathan Kemp points out in “Queer Past, Queer Present, Queer Future,” as a porous, unfixed, and intersectional entity that takes into consideration multiple cultural facets, including but not limited to race, gender, religion, and nationality, among others. Crucial within this approach are goals such as the disruption of binary approaches, the notions of reproductive futurism, and ideas concerning affect and the body. Furthermore, a strand of queer studies also has an obvious activist and emancipatory mission.

I think these issues would mesh in an interesting and productive fashion with the materiality and sociology of texts, which focuses mostly on how the textual, paratextual, political, and cultural elements of literary productions work in conjunction to circulate texts within the social sphere—particularly when it comes to the role of the closet and “concealment.” I think queer theory, particularly when it comes to notions such as the closet, futurity, and affect, will provide a rich and innovate spin on the materiality/sociology of texts, a spin that will ultimately prove to be quite fruitful when it comes to the analysis of the socio-cultural dimensions of LGBTQ texts, which in and of themselves actively align themselves against the status quo.

III.A – Queer Theory

  1. David Ross Fryer. Thinking Queerly: Race, Sex, Gender, and the Ethics of Identity (2011)
  2. E.L. McCallum. Queer Times, Queer Becomings (2011)
  3. Elizabeth Freeman. Time Binds: Queer Temporalities, Queer Histories (2010)
  4. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. Epistemology of the Closet (1990). Click here for my discussion of Sedgwick’s book.
  5. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (2003)
  6. Ian Barnard. Queer Race: Cultural Interventions into the Racial Politics of Queer Theory (2004)
  7. John D’Emilio. “Capitalism and Gay Identity” (1983)
  8. Jose Esteban Muñoz. Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity (2009)
  9. Judith Butler. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990)
  10. Judith Butler. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence (2004)
  11. Judith Butler. Undoing Gender (2004)
  12. Judith Halberstam. Female Masculinity (1998) and The Queer Art of Failure (2011)
  13. Lee Edelman. No Future: Queer Theory and the Death Drive (2004)
  14. Leo Bersani. Is the Rectum a Grave?: and Other Essays (2009)
  15. Lynne Huffer. Mad for Foucault: Rethinking the Foundations of Queer Theory (2009)
  16. Michael Warner. The Trouble with Normal (1999)
  17. Michel Foucault, trans. Robert Hurley. The History of Sexuality – Volume I (1976)
  18. Michel Foucault, trans. Robert Hurley. The History of Sexuality – Volume II (1984)
  19. Michel Foucault, trans. Robert Hurley. The History of Sexuality – Volume III (1984)
  20. Roderick Ferguson. Aberrations in Black: Toward a Queer of Color Critique (2004)
  21. Sarah Ahmed. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others (2006) and The Cultural Politics of Emotion (2004). Click here for my discussion of Ahmed’s The Cultural Politics of Emotion.

III.B – Queer Materiality and Queer Cultural Studies

  1. David Savran. A Queer Sort of Materialism (2003)
  2. Elisa Glick. Materializing Queer Desire: Oscar Wilde to Andy Warhol (2009)
  3. Guy Davidson. Queer Commodities (2012)
  4. Heather K. Love. Feeling Backward: Loss and the Politics of Queer History (2007)
  5. Jaime Harker. Middlebrow Queer: Christopher Isherwood in America (2013)
  6. Kathryn Bond Stockton. The Queer Child, or, Growing Sideways in the Twentieth Century (2009)
  7. Kevin Floyd. The Reification of Desire: Toward a Queer Marxism (2009)
  8. Michael Moon. A Small Boy and Others: Imitation and Initiation in American Culture from Henry James to Andy Warhol (1998)
  9. Michael Trask. Cruising Modernism: Class and Sexuality in American Literature and Social Thought (2003)
  10. Michael Warner. Publics and Counterpublics (2005)
  11. Samuel R. Delany. Shorter Views: Queer Thoughts & the Politics of the Paraliterary (2000)
  12. Scott Herring. Another Country: Queer Anti-Urbanism (2010)
  13. Steven Bruhm and Natasha Hurley, eds. Curiouser: On the Queerness of Children (2004)
  14. Susan Stryker. Queer Pulp: Perverted Passions from the Golden Age of the Paperback (2001)

III.C – Materiality and the Sociology of Texts

  1. Andrew Piper. Book Was There: Reading in Electronic Times (2012)
  2. Benedict Anderson. Imagined Communities (1983)
  3. D.F. McKenzie. Bibliography and the Sociology of Texts (1999)
  4. Gérard Genette. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (2001)
  5. Janice A. Radway. Reading the Romance: Women, Patriarchy, and Popular Literature (1984)
  6. Jim Collins. Bring on the Books for Everybody: How Literary Culture Became Popular Culture (2010). Click here for my discussion of Collins’ book.
  7. Jürgen Habermas. The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (1991)
  8. Kathryn Sutherland and Marilyn Deegan. Text Editing, Print and the Digital World (2008)
  9. Nicole Matthews and Nickianne Moody. Judging a Book by its Cover (2007)
  10. Pierre Bourdieu. The Field of Cultural Production (1993)
  11. Raymond Williams. The Long Revolution (1961) and The Sociology of Culture (1982)
  12. Ted Striphas. The Late Age of Print: Everyday Book Culture from Consumerism to Control (2011)

– – –

Image above courtesy of Surachai /

Growth and Development in Stephen Chbosky’s [The Perks of Being a Wallflower]

Update: The content of this blog post was developed into an academic article that was published by The ALAN Review. I’m thrilled to announce that this article obtained the Nilsen-Donelson award for the best academic article published in 2013. Click on the following link to download a PDF version of the full article: Writing Through Growth, Growth Through Writing: [The Perks of Being a Wallflower] and the Narrative of Development

Original cover of Stephen Chbosky’s “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” (1999)

I remember the first time that I held that bright green cover in my hands early in the morning during the Christmas of 2002. In all honesty, I had no concrete clue of what the novel was about. I just remember surfing through the web, looking for young adult books to get me through the holidays, and the title of this novel caught my attention: The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Now, it was an unusually complex title for a young adult novel, but seeing as I myself felt like a wallflower at times, something about the title spoke to me. Little did I know that I was about to read the book that led to a shift in my being… a book that affected me on levels beyond comprehension… a book that almost 14 years later continues to shape who I am.

When people ask me what is my favorite text of all time, they would probably expect me to say something that any other literary scholar would say: Shakespeare’s dramas, Milton’s poetry, Dickens’ novels, or maybe even Thoreau’s philosophies and discussions. However, my answer would undoubtedly be the aforementioned book titled Perks of Being a Wallflower, written by Stephen Chbosky. Sure, the book is not a book for everyone. Many people become “nauseated” with the protagonist’s overly sentimental musings, and others simply get angry with the protagonist’s lack of action (these were reactions that some of my past students had when first reading the novel). Others accuse the book of being a rip-off of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye; true, it is unsurprising to see that Salinger’s text was indeed an influence for Chbosky’s work (it is even one of the many novels that the protagonist encounters throughout the narration), but comparing the two works would be like comparing apples and pears: they have similar textures and flavor profiles, but in the end they are different fruits that possess different forms.

I consider the novel to be one-of-a-kind. Charlie, the protagonist, is one of the most vulnerable, raw, real, and honest literary characters that I have encountered within the realm of young adult fiction (and arguably, all genres of fiction). The novel is one of the few instances in which readers have the opportunity to witness the uncensored perspectives of a male character who is not afraid to share his thoughts and sentiments. As of now, it has been the only book that has been capable of making me cry. True, I read the novel during a vulnerable time: like Charlie, I was lost, and confused, and I was looking for someone to speak to. Charlie, the protagonist of the novel, ultimately became that person. But, even when reading Perks numerous times after escaping my own period of vulnerability, it still continues to “listen” to me, and to speak to me. It still continues to haunt me. And every time I read it, it says something different to me.

The film was superbly acted by Emma Watson as the vivacious and complex Samantha, and Logan Lerman as Charlie, the film’s heart-breaking and fractured protagonist.

The reason I’m bringing this book up is because I finally was able to see the film adaptation of this novel, which was written AND directed by Stephen Chbosky himself. The movie was only being shown in select theaters, but this weekend, it finally was shown in theaters across the nation. Truth be told, I was rather afraid to see the film. When our favorite books are adapted to the silver screen, there is always the fear that the adaptation won’t live up to our expectations, and that the film will never reach the standards of the original source. However, after seeing the movie last night, I realized that my feelings were misguided. The film adaptation of Perks was endearing, touching, and thought-provoking. But even more so, the movie was crafted for a generation who grew up with the ideals and thoughts manifested in Chbosky’s original text: originality, uniqueness, and loyalty. The movie invites us to ultimately find a sense of belonging in “the island of misfit toys.”

Overall, the film has received very positive reviews. It currently has a score of 8.4/10 in IMDB, and it was certified as a fresh film in Rotten Tomatoes, with a current approval rate of 86% among critics and 95% among audience members. And in all honesty, those who don’t understand the movie, or that consider it another bland coming-of-age story either fail to sympathize with the hurdles that the protagonist had to overcome, or they find it hard to connect with the notion of being an outsider (after all, not everyone is aware of the unique perspective that one develops when “standing on the fringes of life”).

In due course, the film left me inspired, and it pushed me to submit an article that I wrote on the novel last semester to the ALAN Review, the nation’s leading journal on the study and teaching of young adult literature. Frankly, I had reservations in terms of submitting the article for review, mostly because I feel like I cannot effectively do justice to my favorite novel of all time. In addition, I am aware that the article is far from perfect. However, just like Charlie had to learn how to participate, I needed to step out of the shadows and take an academic risk. I have no idea whether or not the article will be accepted for publication, but I guess there was no harm in trying.

Anyway, to conclude today’s post, I will include an excerpt from the article that I submitted. Wish me luck!

Excerpt of “Writing through Growth, Growth through Writing: The Perks of Being a Wallflower and the Narrative of Development” written by Angel Daniel Matos:


Although Perks is certainly considered epistolary in terms of its form and delivery, its content and function are definitely attuned towards the aims of developmental fiction. Given that the protagonist depicts his own developmental process through his writing, and given that the novel is written via a series of letters, it is imperative that the reader becomes attuned to how the process of writing and the process of Bildung work together to fulfill and challenge the nuances of development within the literary scope. The process of writing in Perks manifests primarily in two ways: through the letters that Charlie writes to the anonymous recipient and through the assignments and tasks that he completes for his English class in high school. Fascinatingly, Charlie’s writing is very much reflective of his own development as a person, and the writing that we encounter in the first letters of the book is more scrambled, disorganized, and “immature” in comparison to the prose found in his final letters.

For instance, here’s an example of Charlie’s writing at the beginning of the novel: “Aunt Helen told my father not to hit me in front of her ever again and my father said this was his house and he would do what he wanted and my mom was quiet and so were my brother and sister” (Chbosky, 1999, p. 6). This sentence exemplifies the writing style that is predominant during the first letters of the novel: the prose is peppered with run-on sentences, he has not mastered the art of punctuation, and his ideas many times lack coherence and cohesion. We see that his writing style, and even the topics that he discusses in his letters, begin to evolve and mature as Charlie gains more experience with the art of writing, and as he begins to delve in increasingly complicated efforts to understand himself and the people around him. Charlie’s English teacher, Bill, assumes the role of Charlie’s mentor not only from an educational standpoint, but from a formational one as well. Charlie also takes Bill’s advice and suggestions quite seriously, and although he always gives Charlie A’s on his report cards, he always labels his essays with a lower grade as a way of challenging him:

First of all, Bill gave me a C on my To Kill a Mockingbird essay because he said that I run my sentences together. I am trying now to practice not to do that. He also said that I should use the vocabulary words that I learn in class like “corpulent” and “jaundice.” I would use them here, but I really don’t think they are appropriate in this format. (Chbosky, 1999, p. 14)

After Bill’s recommendations, Charlie’s letters increasingly avoid the use of run-on sentences, and his prose becomes much clearer and more efficient, saying more using less words. It is also interesting to note that when Charlie writes about the books that Bill assigns to him, he manages to use writing as a way of evaluating the actions of the characters in the books he reads, and he always tries to establish parallels between his own life and the “life” portrayed in the books.

This notion of comparing and contrasting becomes important in terms of the content depicted in Charlie’s letters, for it is in this instance that he begins to situate himself more prominently in the actions that are represented in the letters. At first, most of what he writes about is concerned with the observations that he makes of his family. This notion of writing “empirical” observations of the people he observes becomes the main focus of Charlie’s letters until Bill begins to notice that Charlie constantly stares at people and scrutinizes them obsessively. He then asks Charlie what he thinks about when he observes people, and after he tells Bill everything he thinks about, the teacher remarks that although thinking a lot is not necessarily a bad thing, “sometimes people use thoughts to not participate in life” (Chbosky, 1999, p. 24). This remark pushes Charlie to further assess his own life and the degree to which he participates in events, talks with other people, and tries to make friends. However, the very process of writing his thoughts obliges him to become introverted and pensive, and he continues to write letters as a way of assessing his own life: “when I write letters, I spend the next two days thinking about what I figured out in my letters. I do not know if this is good or bad” (Chbosky, 1999, p. 28). The effort that Charlie puts in trying to understand his meditations is a clear indicator that Bill was right to some extent, for so much effort is put into trying to understand, that there is little room to actually live and enjoy life.

Despite the mental effort and time required in the crafting of his letters, there seems to be a radical shift in terms of the content being portrayed after Bill warns Charlie about the perils of overthinking. The focus of the letters shifts from a focus on family to a focus primarily on Charlie’s efforts to socialize and make friends. In due course, Charlie becomes very close to a group of seniors at his school, known for not being the most popular and loved people within the premises. The first friend he makes in high school is Patrick, a gay senior with a penchant for jokes and mischief, and who introduces Charlie into the world of drinking, smoking, and the unwritten rules of sexual behavior. He also befriends Sam (short for Samantha), who is Patrick’s stepsister and on whom Charlie develops an obsessive crush. The bulk of the letters depicted after this point discuss the differences that exist between Patrick, Samantha, other friends, and himself, his strivings to understand the motivations behind their thoughts and actions, and more importantly, the arduous process of integrating himself with Patrick and Samantha’s circle of friends.

Charlie develops a clearer sense of the world through this arduous process of integration, and through his immersion in new experiences such as drug use, masturbation, visits to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and through his exposure to different literatures. His analysis of the content of his letters, and the feedback he gets from his essays at school, demonstrate that Charlie is developing the ability to make his writing more concrete and understandable due to the fact that he is undergoing experiences that provide him with a substantial analytical platform. Even more so, Charlie’s development of his writing prowess leads him to the discovery of the craft he wants to hone as a professional endeavor: “I have decided that maybe I want to write when I grow up. I just don’t know what I would write” (Chbosky, 1999, p. 46). Although at first the letters prevented him from participating due to their introspective and slightly amateurish nature, it is when Charlie combines his writing skills with the experiences that he has obtained that allows him to develop a richer image of who he is and who he wants to be. Interestingly, the more Charlie writes, the more he understands himself, and the easier it is for the recipient of the letters to develop a more defined snapshot of Charlie’s mind. In other words, the more Charlie begins to understand himself, the more others also begin to understand him.

It is unclear whether Charlie keeps copies of the letters for himself; however, Charlie consistently makes reference to past letters. Charlie compares and contrasts experiences illustrated in his letters, and he also revisits previous points of discussion in order to reevaluate his thoughts using the knowledge that his experiences have thrust upon him. For instance, Charlie once reads a poem to his friends titled “A Person/ A Paper/ A Promise Remembered,” written by Patrick Comeaux and given to him by Michael (the friend who committed suicide), which portrays the growth of a boy into a man, and concludes with the speaker’s suicide due to his disillusionment with life. At first, Charlie is unable to understand the poem clearly, and he is unwilling to understand why a person would commit suicide. But, during New Year’s Eve, Charlie writes a letter in which he confesses that a particular experience has unfortunately helped him to grasp the intended meaning of the poem:

I just remembered what made me think of all this. I’m going to write it down because maybe if I do I won’t have to think about it. And I won’t get upset. But the thing is that I can hear Sam and Craig having sex, and for the first time in my life, I understand the end of that poem. And I never wanted to. You have to believe me. (Chbosky, 1999, p. 96)

It is important to note that in this instance, Charlie is using writing for a new purpose: rather than using the letters as a means of interpreting himself and his world, he uses writing as a way of distancing himself from his thoughts, as if writing were a way of draining his worries away from his mind. Even more so, it is through looking back at his own writing that he is able to comprehend how he loses innocence, and how he is able to understand concepts that used to escape his cognizance. It is after this point that Charlie becomes a “rebel” in many aspects: he begins to smoke and drink more than ever; he begins to explore his sexual identity by hanging out more often with Patrick and kissing him every so often, and he secretly offers his sister assistance when she believes she is pregnant.

Charlie begins to realize that life does not have to be lived according to others’ expectations, and if he is to achieve any degree of happiness, he has to find a way to balance his desires and social demand. This stepping away from society’s parameters also manifests within Charlie’s writing, seeing as he begins to experiment with different styles of writing and of conveying ideas: “I wrote a paper about Walden for Bill, but this time I did it differently. I didn’t write a book report. I wrote a report pretending that I was by myself near a lake for two years. I pretended that I lived off the land and had insights. To tell you the truth, I kind of like the idea of doing that right now” (Chbosky, 1999, p. 128). Thus, rather than complying with a formula or a set of rules on how to tackle his literary interventions through writing, he delves into an experimental endeavor in which he filters the information he decodes in the book through his own set of experiences. Rather than simply being a sponge that absorbs and regurgitates ideas, Charlie begins to view the act of writing as a mediation between a conversion taking place, turning him into an active writer rather than a passive one. Thus, the parallels between emotional and mental development, or Bildung, become increasingly tied to the act of writing throughout the progression of the novel. Furthermore, notice that Charlie seems rather pleased with this new direction that he is taking.

Charlie’s progression from a passive to an active participant is not an overnight change, but rather, it is a very difficult and gradual process. Despite his small victories and attempts, Charlie still remains a wallflower towards the concluding letters of the novel. However, in the climactic letter of the novel, Samantha confronts Charlie and obliges him to face the consequences of his lack of action. Sam has broken up with her boyfriend because he was cheating on her, yet Charlie never made an attempt to date Sam now that she was newly single. In a fit of frustration, Sam confronts Charlie with the truth after he confesses that he did not take action because he was more concerned with her sadness than with trying to be with her:

It’s great that you can listen and be a shoulder to someone, but what about when someone doesn’t need a shoulder. What if they need the arms or something like that? You can’t just sit there and put everybody’s lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can’t. You have to do things. (Chbosky, 1999, p. 200)

And rather than replying to her accusations with words, Charlie approaches Sam and starts to kiss her. They soon end up on the bed, kissing passionately, but just as they are about to go all the way, Charlie begins to have a nervous breakdown. To make a long story short, Charlie slowly but surely remembers the fact that he was sexually abused as a child by his diseased aunt Helen, which explains why Charlie was so repressed and had difficulties participating in life. After a few months in the hospital after his breakdown, Charlie begins to come to grips with his repressed past, and he proposes to move on and change the direction of his life. […] Indeed, the surprising and unprecedented moment in which Charlie reawakens his repressed past is indeed heartbreaking and difficult to tolerate emotionally, but it is the moment in which Charlie truly begins to feel free from the unbearable burden of trying to figure out why he is the way he is, and why he so desperately craves to understand the world around him. And although action leads him to achieve his moment of breakthrough, it is the act of writing that helps him put his life into perspective, and that provides the missing puzzle pieces that complete the image of the self.


The main characters of “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.” From left to right: Charlie (Logan Lerman), Patrick (Ezra Miller), and Sam (Emma Watson)