Hard Love

Hard Love
Ellen Wittlinger

I was a dependent twelve-year-old when I picked up Hard Love in the bookstore and handed it to my mother for her to skim and scan through the pages and ultimately determine whether or not the book was fit for me to read. She concluded, from what she saw, that the book was mostly about the character’s relationship with his parents, and was therefore safe for twelve-year-old me to read. Also, it was multi-awarded, with Michael Printz Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature on a silver seal printed on the cover.

The book is also a winner of the Lambda Literary Award, which not many people know is given by a foundation that pushes for “raising the status of openly lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered people throughout society by rewarding and promoting excellence among LGBT writers who use their work to explore LGBT lives.”

Hard Love cover

Ellen Wittlinger writes the book for everyone whose first love was a hard love—and really, whose wasn’t?

Each member of the very diverse group of characters (who have nothing in common except for their passion for writing what they call zines) has his or her own set of personal issues revolving around dysfunctional family, sexual identity, and strangely enough, names.

You have a pair of very understanding, supportive parents on Marisol’s side, and another two parents who you really couldn’t call a pair, extremely distant and unable to communicate, on John’s.

Interspersed with excerpts from the characters’ zines, Ani DiFranco lyrics, letters, and poetry, is a story of how John falls in love with Marisol. John is not particularly interesting in comparison to Marisol Guzman, Puerto Rican Cuban Yankee Cambridge, Massachusetts, rich spoiled lesbian private-school gifted-and-talented writer virgin looking for love.

And it’s hard love, because you can’t blame anyone for why it just can’t work out. He can’t help who he fell in love with (and they say you’re not supposed to help it, anyway), and she can’t help who she can’t fall in love with. They’ve both had their hearts broken, but they aren’t meant to be the ones to mend the other one.

It’s not a happy ending, but you understand why it just can’t be.

Boys Don’t Cry

Boys Don’t Cry

I was sitting on the floor of a corridor in school at lunch break earlier today, waiting for my next class to start. I had my earphones plugged in as I watched Boys Don’t Cry for the first time. I must have looked slightly crazy to the people passing by, because my face was all scrunched up. I would catch myself sometimes, but inevitably end up with the same scrunched up face all over again.

The movie was extremely intense. I couldn’t help but feel so involved.

I’d gotten used to sugarcoating in the movies I’d been watching, but there was none of that here. I was being thrown into a world I wasn’t ready for, and I didn’t know what to do. It was harsh, without even a heartwarming ending to make up for the emotional torture. If there was even a hint of happiness, it was bittersweet.

Scenes from the movie may cause disgust. The characters themselves certainly will not fail to. It’s difficult to learn to like a single one. Whereas other stories are about those people you know you should hate but you just can’t help but love, these people, I couldn’t seem to love. And it had nothing to do with the issue of Brandon’s being transgendered. It was just that no one could seem to do anything right, even by the lowest standard of simply acting with decency towards one another. There was so too much deceit and too little respect.

From disturbed people living in a world driven by the unnatural high of drugs, and drowning in the intoxication of alcohol, you cannot expect much. I say this as objectively as possible.

But as much of a challenge it was to watch the whole movie, it was an eye-opener. Sure, we hear about violence against transgendered people. We hear about violence about minorities in general. But we don’t see it quite as often, so we’re given the lucky privilege of choosing not to know. Not anymore.

Boys Don’t Cry, while partly fictionalized, is based on the true story of a real Brandon Teena.

This is the cold, hard truth right in front of your eyes. Don’t shut them.

The Realm of Possibility

The Realm of Possibility
David Levithan

From the very beginning, The Realm of Possibility is not your ordinary book. It’s shrink-wrapped in clingy plastic and set on one of the bookstore’s shelves, and you pick it up, scan through the back cover, and buy it.

The Realm of Possibility cover

You’re waiting a tale of teenage love and intertwined lives to be spun in beautiful lines like those you copied onto your planner because you didn’t want to forget (maybe for this book, you’ll write, this will linger). Because that’s what the back cover tells you.

You pinch off a hardened corner of the plastic wrapper, slide your finger along the sealed line, and proceed to peel off the rest. You’ve seen the two hands and the crowned heart on the cover before, but this time you take a second glance. Then you leaf through the first few pages until you make it to a gray page that has the heading “one,” followed by a list of four names.

Then you find that the book has been written in free verse, and you think, really, should you have paid all that money for a book with pages almost bare save for a few three-word liners?

But soon enough, you realize, yes, it was worth it.

You read through some stories, excited to figure out how each one connects to the first, so you cheat a little and look through the four other chapter dividers and you’re surprised to find your own name on one. But you don’t want to spoil it for yourself, so you quickly return to where you stopped.

Levithan isn’t telling the story this time. He lets the twenty teenagers write for themselves, each one with their own distinct style, and distinct mind.

Whereas other stories are limited by their one or two main characters, this one has twenty, a completely heterogeneous group in terms of sexuality, beliefs, culture, and experiences. Through these twenty, we see a full spectrum.

Leviathan understands, and lets us understand, there will always be different people with different interests. Here, in this realm of possibility, some of them intersect.

The Claddagh ring says, “With my two hands I give you my heart, and crown it with my love.”

Bare: A Pop Opera

Bare: A Pop Opera
Jon Hartmere, Jr. and Damon Intrabartolo

Bare was being staged by Ateneo’s BlueRep at a time when I was developing a renewed interest in plays. Many cheap (as compared to those of Trumpets and Repertory in Meralco Theater) plays were becoming accessible to me as a college student. I almost missed Bare, because I was busy around the time it was showing. I just got lucky – the show was extended, and an insistent friend forced me to watch.

BlueRep’s run has long been over, but if this play is staged again, it shouldn’t be missed. It’s been seven months since I watched the play, but it remains fresh as ever because of its exquisite soundtrack. With its poetic lyrics and very up-to-date music, the soundtrack can stand alone.

I thought it was perfect that Ateneo staged it. It was very current, and so much in context. Peter, Jason, Claire, Ivy, Matt, and the rest are us. Theirs is a world that so many of us have lived in: one of strict Catholic values and conservative beliefs, and more than a little bit of secrecy.

We end up falling in love with both boys through their heart-rending words to each other. They go back and forth, unsure of their decisions, unsure of their identities, as they encounter reactions from the people in their direct environment. It’s frustrating to see how fickle they are, but even more frustrating when you so clearly see why it’s so difficult for them.

Bare is unique in that highlights how the people surrounding the couple are so much affected by them. While some stories only touch on the subject of homosexuality and focus more on the world around it, and others focus solely on it, Bare brings into discussion how the two worlds interact.

It’s a very problematic two worlds, where there is, as Peter describes, safety in falsehood. But well beyond the boundaries of private Catholic high school, this will always be a problem. This is exacerbated by them being teenagers. Peter struggles with the decision of whether or not to come out to his mother, although he ultimately knows that he has to. Jason worries “if they knew, my parents would die—they would die.”

South of Nowhere

South of Nowhere

By the time I heard about South of Nowhere, the show was on its last few episodes. I was a little late. I don’t think it’s ever been aired here. A friend burned me DVD’s of the first two seasons.

Its storyline was similar to that of any other teenage drama. Family moves to California from another state, the kids are exposed to local life and begin to adjust, the parents go through culture shock. It’s always the same, with just a little tweaking – look at The OC and 90210.

South of Nowhere scene from opening credits

So Spencer Carlin moved to Los Angeles and met the bitchy cheerleader, developed a crush on the heartthrob jock, and met the strange girl, Ashley, who didn’t quite fit in. But stereotyping is done away with soon enough. Each of the characters grows and learns – through religion, death, discrimination, drugs, money, sex, parenting, siblinghood, and prom.

By the end of the third season, you don’t have that character that you wish would just get out of the way of everyone else so that life could just be happier. The show isn’t presented in a particularly biased way; it just shows what is. The thing is, you have to be willing to see what is, as it is.

Don’t think of it as a lesbian series, because that’s not all it’s about – just like people are not solely defined by their sexuality. Everyone is something more. South of Nowhere is something more.

Perhaps what made the show succeed was that it had found its niche. It dealt with teenage homosexuality, which should’ve been so obvious, and yet no shows before it had ever focused on the topic. If anything, all the other shows would have at most a few episodes of a character going through a gay phase (Marissa Cooper in season two of The OC, and Rebecca Logan in season two of Greek).

It didn’t have the elements that would make other shows work – the stunning actors, the beautiful wardrobes, the poetic dialogue. (In fact, I personally hated the outfits). It was so simple.

I loved the day at the beach. It was beautiful. And I loved how Ashley always stressed, “because it’s so important.”