Forms of Love in the Delirium Trilogy

Since love is at the center of the battle in the Deliriumseries, it’s no surprise that relationships are of the utmost importance.  In this world, love has been given a new name, amor deliria nervosa, and it’s been branded a disease, a putrefaction, a subversion.  Those who refuse the cure for the disease are driven out of society and forced to survive in brutal, spartan conditions if they’re lucky, locked away to rot or executed for dissidence if they’re not.  It stands to reason that, in order to risk so much and defy everything one has ever known, it requires a force like love urging them forward.  (Some spoilers.)

As such, we know it’s only a matter of time before Lena, who’s been obsessively counting the days until her cure, falls in love with a boy and realizes the agony and ecstasy for which the uncured throw everything away.  It’s no surprise that meeting Alex is her awakening to what life can truly be, as well as how broken and festering her society is, and she breaks faith with all she’s ever been taught in order to cast her lot with him.  However, the series doesn’t leave love as clearcut as that.  Lena’s relationship with Alex isn’t her salvation, and it’s threatened by the people who fear it.  After the first book, the story becomes about carrying on despite the loss of love, about standing for the right to love in and of itself, rather than just the right to love a specific person.  It edges toward the possibility of loving again after love lost, opening your heart to someone new even as you’re still blinded by the dazzle of that first love.  I’m not crazy about how things shake out on this front in the third book, but I still appreciate the way the series as a whole explores love in a more complex way; for a young adult series, that’s pretty laudable.

But what I really appreciate is that this fight isn’t only for romantic love.  While romance gets the most dedicated focus, other forms of love are just as forbidden, and people who find themselves struck by them will give up just as much for their right to feel it.  I like Lena’s repeated remembrances of her mother, who endured several failed procedures and was lost to Lena in childhood.  There are some great notes about how Lena’s mother is regarded suspiciously by other parents for the way she behaves with her other children.  Other mothers don’t sing, Lena realizes in retrospect, and when young Lena scrapes her knee and the sidewalk and her mother holds and comforts her, she’s practically committing a public indecency.  In this world, a woman’s love for her daughters is called a disease.  Similarly, I love the story of how young Raven winds up running away to the Wilds.  Happening upon an infant Blue, abandoned and near death, Raven gives herself over to this baby so fully and so immediately that she leaves her entire life behind her.  If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

I’m grateful for that.  As an aromantic, I don’t experience romantic love, and if that was the only kind of love explored in the book, I would have felt pretty left out.  I mean, don’t get me wrong – romantic love is all over stories in every medium, and I’m used to seeing plenty of it.  But when the obvious thesis of the story is “love is right and healthy, and those who try to take it away are the ones who are sick and wrong,” I’d be a little uncomfortable if I felt I had more in common with the “non-love” side.  Not that I’d run around advocating the cure, but if it was only for romantic love, I wouldn’t see getting cured as any great loss for me personally.  By including more all-encompassing forms of love, like familial love and friendship, the book includes stakes that would apply to me as well, and I like that.

Jughead (2015-Present)

I’m now officially caught up on Chip Zdarsky’s new comic series Jughead, and honestly, I really enjoy it.  I wouldn’t have thought I needed any more reasons to be excited about Jughead being canonically ace, but I found another one – if this hadn’t happened, I can almost guarantee that I would’ve never started reading (or possibly ever even heard of) this exceptionally fun series.

At first glance, Jughead seems like a dangerous character to put in the central role, at least from a fandom standpoint.  His origins in the Archie comics place him squarely as the best friend, the funny sidekick.  Now, characters like this tend to be enormously popular, and for good reason, but there’s also a good reason for keeping them in a supporting position.  Countless sitcoms have run into trouble when they discover – and subsequently overuse – their breakout character.  Push that sort of character to the forefront, and you might wind up with an Erkel.  Sure, Jughead is great when he’s Archie’s sarcastic slacker buddy with a hole in his life that only hamburgers can fill, but if you give him his own comic, do you run the risk of ruining him?

In this case, those concerns are happily unfounded.  Jughead rocks his own comic – honestly, I’m a little surprised at just how well it comes together.  You wouldn’t necessarily think a lazy kid whose chief preoccupation is his appetite would make an engaging protagonist, but Zdarsky’s initial series arc has found a way to incorporate a lot of action while still maintaining Jughead’s core character.  The first issue introduces Mr. Stanger, the new Riverdale principal with rigorous expectations and totally suspect motives, and he becomes an immediate enemy to Jughead by replacing the normal cafeteria food with high-nutrition slop.  Food being Jughead’s first love, this gives him a reason to get off his butt and do something, and also puts him in Stanger’s crosshairs.  From there, we see the escalations of Stanger threatening Jughead’s loafing way of life, Jughead pushing back/becoming a bigger target, and even better, Jughead beginning to realize just how bad news this guy is.  Suddenly, you have the funny, hungry slacker very unexpectedly finding himself in the center of a crusade, with very few allies because, as the funny, hungry slacker, no one takes him seriously.  Plenty of fertile ground for storytelling.

Also, it’s super fun.  The plots are crazy-in-a-good-way, the jokes range from fantastic to just-on-the-right-side-of-corny, and tons of natural humor shines though in the characterizations.  I just love the opening scene of issue #3, in which a dejected Jughead, deprived of his video games, works an imaginary controller while mumbling to himself about the bosses he’s killing, and I get a kick out of Archie’s periodic meta queries on why people aren’t more interested in what he’sup to.  The comic also works in some extra entertainment through regular dream sequences.  Each is set up like a separate mini-comic with the larger issue, with its own title and sensibility.  In his head, Jughead has been a time traveler, a secret agent, a pirate, and a superhero, and he’s also given us a fantastic Westeros parody in Game of Jones (ha!)

On the aro-aceness front, the early issues include little references before the Holy-Crap-They-Just-Used-the-Actual-Word-“Asexual”-in-Casual-Conversation-How-Cool-is-That scene in issue #4.  Jughead comments on his disinterest in dating now and then (again, casually – not making a big thing of it,) and he once bails on a fantasy sequence when a pretty girl in it moves to kiss him.  I like that, while he’s (thankfully!) not Asexual Jughead the Asexual Character, it is still a distinct part of his character that won’t get the mentioned-once and-never-seen-again treatment.

Asexual Sighting: Jughead Jones (Archie)

The last (possible) Asexual Sighting I did was Arthur Martin on Six Feet Under, ages ago.  Fortunately, I stumbled across this brand-new (old) discovery at The Mary Sue.  Jughead.  Canonically asexual (and aromantic.)  That happened.

Okay, background information:  Archie comics have been around since 1941, and Jughead, Archie’s best friend, has been a key member of the Riverdale gang from the start.  Like any comic series, Archie has changed and evolved a lot over its long history.  It’s taken different iterations and acquired offshoots, one of which is the new Jughead comic that began last fall.  Penned by comic writer Chip Zdarsky, it’s here that we get an ace Jughead.

Jughead’s asexuality was revealed in the comic’s most recent issue, which came out last month.  I love the issue’s handling of it for several reasons.  First, it’s not a coming-out narrative.  Within the context, it’s clear that Jughead’s friends already know about his aceness, and it’s brought up casually in conversation.  Second, his character doesn’t revolve around his sexuality.  In fact, it’s just a handful of lines on one page, the epitome of “no big deal” representation.  Third, Jughead is a 100% contented aro-ace.  He doesn’t mind being asexual at all.  Quite the reverse – he claims he’s the only one in school who “can think clearly” because he’s “not hobbled by these hormonal impulses.”  (I can relate to that; while I don’t argue that being ace is “better” or anything, I absolutely love being who I am and really wouldn’t have it any other way.)  Fourth, it fits surprisingly well into his characterization from the last 75 years.  This is no retcon situation.  Jughead has never been a big dater, and while he doesn’t hate girls or think they’re gross, he’s not into them (or boys) in “that way,” and he’d rather think about cheeseburgers than cheerleaders.  It’s just that there was no name for it in the ‘40s, and now there is.

I’ve only read the ace-reveal issue (No. 4) so far, but Jughead is enjoyable enough that I’ve ordered the back issues and plan to keep buying the comic.  Jughead himself is a fun, unlikely hero.  A bit of a slacker, a bit of a slob, but also smarter than he looks and something of a daydreamer.  He’s chill and smart-alecky, and in moments of stress (like dodgeball games,) he evidently imagines himself as a pirate named Captain Slackbeard – who doesn’t love that?  He doesn’t have the typical social-awkwardness quirks that frequency accompany suspected aceness (see Sherlock, The Big Bang Theory, and Six Feet Under.)  Rather, the only thing that signals him out as ace is simply that:  his lack of sexual attraction.  Very refreshing, and I’m looking forward to reading more.

On a personal note, this is a represention coup that feels really personal to me.  I know that comics tend to play around a bit more with the LGBTQ alphabet soup than other media do, so I wouldn’t have necessarily run out and bought any comic starring an asexual character.  But it’s Jughead.  I still have crystal-clear memories of stretching out on the floor at my grandparents’ house, reading and rereading my mom’s old, crumbling Archie comics, and I remember Jughead the funny sidekick.  This is a character who’s been part of the pop culture lexicon for three-quarters of a century, a familiar, beloved figure, and he’s like me.  That’s huge, and I’m so glad that Chip Zdarsky recognized how Jughead’s history lent itself to incorporating some sexual diversity into his hero’s characterization.  Way to go!

A Few Doctor-Companion Thoughts

Obviously, the only way this show has been able to exist since 1963 is that the Doctor and his companions change periodically.  The Doctor regenerates, so he’s covered, but the companions have to leave.  New Who’s S.O.P. for companion exits is usually a tragic forced separation, and there have been a few deaths over the years; however, that still leaves plenty who’ve chosen to go of their own volition.  While some can’t hack it anymore and others decide to stay and help a rescued world rebuild, another big reason to jump ship is that they’ve fallen in love.

As far back as One’s era, companions have stayed behind somewhere because they’ve found that special someone.  Depending on how it’s handled, this can feel organic or tacked on, and at least once the companion’s preferred beau is presented as a sort of human substitute for the Doctor.  Though both are always sad to part, the companion says goodbye hand-in-hand with a new love, while the Doctor departs with a hole where they used to be.  Sure, sometimes there’s still another companion or two in the TARDIS, he’ll meet someone new before long, and once a companion has moved on, he rarely stops to look back.  That doesn’t change the pain of each parting.

In the final Amy/Rory episodes of series 7, when the Doctor feels them drifting away, I was struck by how this recurring situation parallels a common asexual worry:  being discarded by a friend in favor of a romantic partner (anyone single might recognize this, but it feels particularly true to me as an ace.)  Honestly, the way that era plays up that false “Doctor vs. Rory” bid for Amy’s affections follows the same theme.  I think it’s clear that the Doctor has never felt that way about Amy, and I don’t think she feels that way about the Doctor, but the show’s insistence on the comparison is about more than Rory’s insecurities.  Almost from the start, it’s telling us Amy can’t have Rory for a lover and the Doctor for a best friend.  Ultimately, one has to win out, and though she’s sad to be pulling away from the Doctor, she sees life at home with Rory as real, grown-up life.  We see this tug-of-war in series 8 as well.  Clara can’t sustain being a TARDIS traveler and Danny’s girlfriend at the same time – despite her efforts, something’s got to give, and if her actions in “Dark Water” are any indication, that something is the Doctor.

In this way, settling down with a romantic partner is viewed as a positive step, maturity-wise, that traveling with the Doctor isn’t.  Life with him is life on pause, and while it’s sad to say goodbye, there’s a sense that supplanting him is natural, inevitable; they’ve grown out of him.  This gets to me because, though he’s lived so much longer, he never grows out of them.  They’re the ones who choose to leave because the relationship they have with him isn’t.  He means a lot to them, of course, but he can’t win out over “the real thing.”  And the thing is, I think they are enough for him.  There have been other forays – Rose and River, and you could argue Eleven-Clara a bit – but at no point does his affection wane because he’s found something “truer” than what he has with them.  If the Doctor and Rory are both in danger, Amy will save Rory first every time.  I don’t think the Doctor would choose so consistently between Amy/Rory and River.

I’m not saying, by the way, that the Doctor is ace.  I tend to see him that way, with some incarnations tending more towards heteroromantic than others (especially Ten,) but it doesn’t really matter.  The point is, for all the talk in recent years about the Doctor as the man who’s always running, who never looks back, whose companions gets hurt from their time with him, he’s not the one who leaves.  Whenever it comes to it, he’s the one who gets left behind.

Poem: Neon (2012)

A fable of love and chemistry.

*          *          *


Neon

 

I met chlorine yesterday,

An element on the prowl.

The wobbly outer shell of her electron cloud

Is one negatively-charged

Ping pong ball short of eight.

She’s so close to that magic number

She can taste it,

But if she wants the stability it brings,

She needs to find someone

With an electron to share or spare.

Her mother says there’s plenty

Of sodium in the sea,

But all she sees around her

Is hydrogen and oxygen –

Looking to bond, yes,

But not to bond with her.

What about me, she asks;

Is there an element in my life

To fill my outer shell

And make me whole?

I reply with a quiet negation.

She assures me that it’s all right.

Some elements take a bit longer

To form that special bond,

And she should know.

No doubt I’ll be settling down soon,

And everyone will say,

What a lovely compound!

I tell her I’m not the compound type,

And it only throws her for a moment.

No, she supposes compounding

Isn’t the institution it once was;

It’s the twenty-first century,

And the modern element

Can bond around.

But see, bonding’s not my scene in any sense.

She doesn’t know what to make of this –

She looks around confidentially

And supportively insists

That it’s okay

To bond with members

Of the same element.

Maybe I’d like to meet her friends,

The O₂’s?

She doesn’t understand.

She’s looking to bond

Because something in her nucleus

Is telling her she wants to be completed.

Her outer shell is off-kilter

Without that eighth electron

To quiet her thoughts

When she wants to sleep.

I’m neon,

A noble gas

With eight electrons in my outer shell –

I have all the stability I need.

I don’t chase the chemical reactions

That scream through you when you bond,

And no new compounds

Will be born out of me,

But I’m my own magic number.

Send a current through me,

And you’ll be dazzled

By how I glow.

Poem: The Epiphany (2013)

 

The Epiphany

 

 

 

Once I staggered in unknown darkness,

Unaware of my unsight.

I strove ahead,

Heedless of the surrounding

Formless void.

I was a preliterate child who,

Dragging her finger

Across the words of a page,

Thinks she reads.

 

Then a sudden spark

Tore through my unused eyes

And illuminated all the hollow places

I hadn’t known rang with echoes.

It howled like a song

I’ve never heard

That was plainly written

In hopeful anticipation of me.

It streaked across my inner sky

With a comet-fire flash,

Littering my sunless self

With sacred detritus

As it continued on its blazing way.

 

I cast my gaze about

And tried to blink away my wonder;

So this is what it is

To see.