Astrid Hawk
This was surprisingly good - not just for a debut, but in its own right. Lots of queer joy, equal or more queer angst, grief, and definitely a lot of love, learning, and growing.
Girls Girls Girls is semi-autobiographical, which is probably how Blanckensee is able to get inside her main character/narrator Hannah's head so well. The story follows Hannah and her girlfriend Sam, 2 18 year olds from Long Beach, NJ, who flee Long Beach just after their high school graduation for the lesbian promised land of San Francisco. When they get there, they discover a new freedom and their community - but also hardship in figuring out who they are, where they belong, and learning how to survive.
Unable to find jobs without having a place to live, and unable to afford a place to live without a steady well-paying job, they discover stripping. Sam takes to it like a moth to flame, but Hannah struggles with the taboo of it, with having to put on a mask and a different persona. Hannah is also struggling with her evolving sense of home - something we probably all experience the first time we leave our childhood homes, where you go through a phase of just not really belonging anywhere for awhile. At least, I certainly remember going through it when I made my own east-coast-to-west-coast move at the age of 22. Meanwhile, Sam wants to go out and meet other lesbians, make friends, grow in a different direction from Hannah.
Although I am not a lesbian woman, I'm not Jewish, and I'm a bit younger than Hannah (my first experience with San Franscisco was in 2000, and it was a typical tourist experience - definitely didn't involve the Tenderloin, stripping, sex, or drugs), there was a lot about her character that I deeply identified with. Her shyness. Her nameless fear of calling people she cares about, letting it get to the point of extreme awkwardness, making the situation worse when she doesn't call (I *still* struggle with this). At one point she says she wants so badly to fit in that she doesn't fit in - that's definitely me.
About 2/3rds of the way through the story, 6 months into her San Francisco life, Hannah gets abruptly pulled back to confront the life and people she left behind in Long Beach. It's certainly not a joyful time - but Blanckensee does a fantastic job of handling the grief and frustration and complex emotions in a way that makes the reader feel them through Hannah but doesn't get mired down in unnecessary angst and drama. Through the pain of it you can see and feel Hannah growing. Learning about herself, learning to reframe the world around her, and learning to accept and be brave. She's remarkably mature, and I wish my own introspection at age 18 had helped me figure things out like that. (Of course, I didn't have a Bubbe like Hannah's to guide me.)
The story ends after Hannah returns to San Francisco and commits to her life there. This isn't a love story - there's no heart-tugging reconciliation, girl-gets-girl-and-lives-happily-ever-after. But Hannah does find a semblance of acceptance and peace, and the story ends on a hopeful note, all the various character threads resolved, even though some are sad or frustrating resolutions. They feel like realistic resolutions. You get the sense that Hannah's life goes on after we stop looking in on her, and that she still has so much more to discover about herself, about being queer, about relationships.
What I love about the queer community is that they are (typically - no group is homogenous and the queer community is no exception) more open to alternative viewpoints and alternative ways of life. Less judging. I know, queer people can be just as exclusive and *phobic as non-queer people - but as a general rule I've found the queer community to be a safer place than any to experiment with who you are and then be who you are. Blanckensee's characters discover this, and I love that it comes through in the book.
This was surprisingly good - not just for a debut, but in its own right. Lots of queer joy, equal or more queer angst, grief, and definitely a lot of love, learning, and growing.
Girls Girls Girls is semi-autobiographical, which is probably how Blanckensee is able to get inside her main character/narrator Hannah's head so well. The story follows Hannah and her girlfriend Sam, 2 18 year olds from Long Beach, NJ, who flee Long Beach just after their high school graduation for the lesbian promised land of San Francisco. When they get there, they discover a new freedom and their community - but also hardship in figuring out who they are, where they belong, and learning how to survive.
Unable to find jobs without having a place to live, and unable to afford a place to live without a steady well-paying job, they discover stripping. Sam takes to it like a moth to flame, but Hannah struggles with the taboo of it, with having to put on a mask and a different persona. Hannah is also struggling with her evolving sense of home - something we probably all experience the first time we leave our childhood homes, where you go through a phase of just not really belonging anywhere for awhile. At least, I certainly remember going through it when I made my own east-coast-to-west-coast move at the age of 22. Meanwhile, Sam wants to go out and meet other lesbians, make friends, grow in a different direction from Hannah.
Although I am not a lesbian woman, I'm not Jewish, and I'm a bit younger than Hannah (my first experience with San Franscisco was in 2000, and it was a typical tourist experience - definitely didn't involve the Tenderloin, stripping, sex, or drugs), there was a lot about her character that I deeply identified with. Her shyness. Her nameless fear of calling people she cares about, letting it get to the point of extreme awkwardness, making the situation worse when she doesn't call (I *still* struggle with this). At one point she says she wants so badly to fit in that she doesn't fit in - that's definitely me.
About 2/3rds of the way through the story, 6 months into her San Francisco life, Hannah gets abruptly pulled back to confront the life and people she left behind in Long Beach. It's certainly not a joyful time - but Blanckensee does a fantastic job of handling the grief and frustration and complex emotions in a way that makes the reader feel them through Hannah but doesn't get mired down in unnecessary angst and drama. Through the pain of it you can see and feel Hannah growing. Learning about herself, learning to reframe the world around her, and learning to accept and be brave. She's remarkably mature, and I wish my own introspection at age 18 had helped me figure things out like that. (Of course, I didn't have a Bubbe like Hannah's to guide me.)
The story ends after Hannah returns to San Francisco and commits to her life there. This isn't a love story - there's no heart-tugging reconciliation, girl-gets-girl-and-lives-happily-ever-after. But Hannah does find a semblance of acceptance and peace, and the story ends on a hopeful note, all the various character threads resolved, even though some are sad or frustrating resolutions. They feel like realistic resolutions. You get the sense that Hannah's life goes on after we stop looking in on her, and that she still has so much more to discover about herself, about being queer, about relationships.
What I love about the queer community is that they are (typically - no group is homogenous and the queer community is no exception) more open to alternative viewpoints and alternative ways of life. Less judging. I know, queer people can be just as exclusive and *phobic as non-queer people - but as a general rule I've found the queer community to be a safer place than any to experiment with who you are and then be who you are. Blanckensee's characters discover this, and I love that it comes through in the book.