The Faults With The Fault in Our Stars

1. The story co-opts the emotional gravitas of terminal illness without actually thinking about the embodied, lived experience of people with the same illnesses/disabilities as Augustus and Hazel.

Think of this like war movies that want to show their characters traumatized or hardened by the violence they've witnessed, only the actual on-screen fighting is choreographed, stylized, and 'cool' in a way real fights/wars/battles never are. The emotional arc--and, arguably, the plot--of The Fault in Our Stars is Hazel's journey of self-discovery as she deals with how her cancer affected her and those around her, including Augustus Waters, another teen cancer survivor with whom she falls in love. The book contains many frank conversations about death and dying. Augustus and Hazel's love story is tragic because they have only a limited amount of time together. Experiences like a first kiss, a picnic, and even climbing a staircase are serious and significant because of the rareness of such "normal" experiences in the lives of teens with cancer, and because of the physical and occasionally emotional labor Hazel and Gus exert to do tasks that are second-nature to "normal" teens. When the story wants to deal an emotional punch, we get the nitty gritty details of, for instance, walking up a staircase with an oxygen tank. But the embodied experience is only explored when it's convenient for the story--it exists to create angst, not a realistic portrayal of the embodied experience of living with a physical disability.

To give credit where credit is due, this was something I completely overlooked until a friend of mine, who had leukemia as a teen, pointed it out and gave some specific examples. One is Hazel and Augustus having sex. I hope it doesn't have to be said, but obviously amputees and people with lung diseases have sex. The thing is, there's a privilege in being able to spontaneously* engage in sex with no pre-planning or preparation. No making sure you've taken or not taken or adjusted your medication so you can enjoy the experience. No thinking about the logistics of making sure your positions and actions won't cause potentially severe injuries. Above all, no counting spoons. (If you haven't heard of spoon theory, read this now.) No calculating what things you might not be able to do later (cook dinner, drive to the store, go to work, paint your kitchen, etc) because you've expended a significant amount of energy having sex.

Of course everyone's experience with illness and disability is different. Some people with disabilities are able to be totally spontaneous when having sex or bowling or walking the dog or whatever. Some people without a disability need to carefully plan sex (or bowling, or whatever) beforehand, because that's what works for them emotionally. The real issue is that Hazel and Gus's physical disabilities are only explored when it's convenient for the narrative. Hazel's going to climb to the top of the Anne Frank house? In-depth description of her struggles to breathe, her exhaustion, etc. Gus is a bad driver? Well, that's played for laughs, so we won't go into the physical complexities of him driving with a prosthetic leg.

The movie is even more problematic in this regard, even before we get into the issue of casting able-bodied actors to play disabled characters, but this article explains it pretty well so I won't get into it here.

*I know they discussed it beforehand, but the moment itself happens pretty organically.


2. The novel simultaneously mocks and uses inspiration porn. 

Inspiration porn isn't real porn. I mean, I'm sure there's something, because this is the internet. But in this context, inspiration porn doesn't (typically) involve sex. It's those stories you see shared on Upworthy and similar sites. It's the state champion wrestler who "let" the kid with downs syndrome win the final match of the season. It's the head cheerleader who asked the boy with autism to prom. It's the woman who decided to record the girl using ASL with a deaf man on an airplane. It's the gee-look-we-gave-this-person-with-disabilities-something-they-might-not-have-even-wanted-in-the-first-place. Above all, it's the proverbial back-patting that occurs when other people read or watch the incident, treating the person with disabilities like a prop or a zoo animal. It's the good feeling that comes with watching a "normal" person deign to help out a "non-normal" person.

To be clear: helping people (disabled or able-bodied,) isn't necessarily bad. It's the turning it into a whole performance that's a violation of personal autonomy and dignity. For instance, the girl on the airplane wasn't doing anything wrong. Flight attendants asked over the PA if anyone knew ASL and she volunteered. It's the person who decided to take pictures and then share those pictures all over social media. It's the news organization that decided to print the girl's name but never bothered to find out the name of the man. (Here's another way this story could have been written: "Man Fluent in ASL Helps Student Practice; Helps Both Pass Time on Boring Flight.")

In The Fault in Our Stars, there are some good passages where Hazel explains how she's been given toys and things because people pity her. That's a good critique of inspiration porn. It shows, from the point of view of a disabled person, how demeaning and just plain annoying it can be to be treated like an oxygen tank (or wheelchair, or cane, or whatever) is your entire identity. Less good is the crowd applauding when Hazel climbs the stairs in the Anne Frank House. (Others have called this disrespectful, I don't feel I have the expertise to engage meaningfully with this critique.) Here's the problem:

"On a superficial level, it’s a positive thing to be considered inspiring – until you consider the implications.

When you tell someone with a disability or someone who is otherwise perceived as disadvantaged that you find them inspiring, you are essentially saying that you would find their way of life insufferable and wouldn’t be able to cope if the roles were reversed.

While it’s meant to be a compliment to perseverance, it’s not exactly the best way to raise someone’s self-esteem or general outlook.

Yes, people with disabilities often face more challenges, and their accomplishments should be recognized, but don’t condescend us.

Please stop pretending to be humbled by passively perpetuating our oppression in allowing the ableist status quo to persist." (Erin Tatum, Everyday Feminism) 

Same problem with John Green Peter Van Houten. First of all, Van Houten's assistant decides to use two teenage cancer survivors to try and inspire Van Houten to stop being such a curmudgeon. She lets them board a plane, fly all the way to Amsterdam, and use a Make a Wish (and those things aren't like candy,) under false pretenses. But the assistant aside (the novel doesn't exactly condemn her actions, but it doesn't condone them either,) Van Houten's entire character arc is him choosing to (sort of) reengage with the world because Hazel and Augustus inspired him. Augustus sending the obituary to Van Houten is the 21st century, hipster equivalent of Tiny Tim telling Ebenezer Scrooge 'God bless us, every one!'

"Fun" activity: watch this video about the premiere of The Fault in Our Stars and count how many times the word 'inspiration' is used. "It's inspiration that sold out the theaters this weekend," Voiceover Man tells us. And that's exactly the problem. For all it critiques inspiration porn, that critique is undermined because the critique (namely, Hazel's sarcastic narration,) becomes part of what makes her inspiring.


3. There's some serious issues with consent. 

I want to acknowledge that the sex scene in The Fault in Our Stars has been praised as a good example of explicit consent. My problem isn't that conversation. It's the larger context of what's unsaid before that scene ever happens.

Here's the thing: the question of consent in this novel is fairly unique and specific. If it had been explored or even acknowledged, it could have added some depth and nuance to the story. As it is, though...

The consent I'm talking about is Hazel and Augustus having sex before Augustus tells Hazel his cancer is back, and it's terminal. The problem isn't so much Augustus choosing not to tell Hazel, it's him choosing not to tell Hazel after she explicitly expressed her reservations about people with terminal illnesses starting romantic relationships. Yes, when she says "I'm a grenade" to explain why she doesn't want to start a relationship with Augustus she's talking specifically about herself. But her feelings, however flawed (or ableist) are still made clear: she doesn't want to expose anyone to the emotional trauma of falling in love with her only to lose her. She only changes her mind when Augustus makes it clear he understands the emotional risk he's taking and assures her he's making the deliberate choice to be with her even knowing he may soon lose her.

He doesn't give her the same choice.

Again, if Hazel hadn't expressed this sentiment, I don't necessarily think this would be a problem. I'm not an expert on consent. I'm not an expert on the complexities of having a romantic relationship with someone with a terminal illness. But as long as you're not endangering someone, I don't think you should *have* to reveal a life-changing medical status to someone before having sex. At the very least, having never been in that situation myself, I'm certainly in no position to judge.

The problem is, Hazel expressed some very real reservations about starting a relationship between a terminally ill person and a non-terminally ill person. Doesn't necessarily mean she's right. But it does mean she has a right to be fully informed before entering into any kind of relationship, especially sexual, with someone who knows her feelings. It's not done with malicious intentions, but Augustus gaslights Hazel. He lies about why he and his parents were arguing. He (and her mom) deliberately don't tell her that he discussed his illness with her parents. When she expresses concern when he seems weak/tired/etc, he deflects.

From what we know of the character, I suspect Hazel would have still chosen to have a relationship, including a sexual relationship, with Augustus had she known of his status beforehand. But she doesn't know. The truth is deliberately hidden from her until after they have sex. We can speculate all we want, but ultimately all we have is the text and the text does not give Hazel the choice. I highly doubt this was Green's intent, but Augustus doesn't give Hazel the same information, honesty, and chance for explicit consent that she gave him. The fact that it results in sex just makes it more unfortunate.

Okay? Not Okay.

Here's the thing: I am definitely the wrong audience for this book. I don't like romance. I don't like realistic fiction. I'm not even a huge fan of YA--I'll take YA over books for adults, but my true love is Middle Grade. I also had the benefit(?) of having three different friends--one with a chronic illness, two cancer survivors--introduce me to the world of disability criticism and explain why they disliked movies like A Walk to Remember, My Sister's Keeper, and Beaches before I ever read The Fault in Our Stars. (By the way, I don't mean to lump my friends together--they each had a very different experience and a very different perspective. The previous sentence is just a cliff notes version of their thoughts, opinions, stories, drunken ramblings, scathing sarcasm, and in one case, scholarship.)

Point being, I was primed to approach stories about characters with disabilities, especially terminal illnesses, with a lot of skepticism. So, yeah. I'm a giant curmudgeon when it comes to The Fault in Our Stars. But I think it's an exemplar of the way disability and/or illness are often treated in popular culture--and that needs to change.

Resources/Further Reading:

Crip the Vote/The Disability Visibility Project: huge group that promotes political and social activism, disability rights, and supports the groundbreaking idea that stories about people with disabilities shouldn't almost exclusively be told by the able-bodied.

Human Rights Watch: Disability Rights: contains tons of reporting, opinions, scholarship, and opportunities for activism not just in the United States but around the world.

The Facebook groups Teaching Disability Studies and, of course, Disability and Chronic Illness in Young Adult Literature

There's a ton more out there, but these are good starting points.

-Cates

The Mysterious Story of How Vampires Became More Human than Jocks in Much of Young Adult Literature

In just a few short days I’m going to have the privilege of giving a presentation on evolutions of the vampire in literature and film at a pop culture conference. In preparation for that presentation, I have read (and watched) a lot of vampire stories. Although many have had enjoyable and unexpected portrayals of vampires (and various fascinating takes on where vampires fit in a Christian or culturally relativist world), many have also had a few deeply unfortunate trends. Since my talk has nothing whatsoever to do with the role of athletes in vampire literature (and other young adult fantasy novels), I’m ranting out my feelings on the subject here instead.

So, here it goes: I am sick to death with the extent to which fantasy school stories are entirely dependent on stereotypes for their plots and characterization.

There is a huge subset of YA (young adult) fantasy literature, with and without vampires, that is basically the story of "I am a nerd. I am misunderstood. I am beautiful and intelligent and talented and socially facile and have magic powers and possibly an undead significant other, so clearly everyone just hates me because I'm too perfect. However, I never actually suffer any serious consequences for not being popular, because I still have 2.5 friends of assorted races and genders and anyway none of the people who dislike me are actually worth talking to. Plus, they'll all be proven wrong in the end anyway." A couple quick examples off the top of my head: Vladimir Tod. In the Forests of the Night. Ink Exchange. Vampire Academy. Bleed Like Me. Betrayals. Vampire Kisses. The Morganville Vampires. Sweetblood. City of Bones. Tithe. Demon in my View. The Silver Kiss. I Am Number Four. Blue Bloods.

ALL OF THEM portray high schools with supporting casts that are made up of some combination of The Dumb Jock (the idiot, the aggressor, the human incarnation of evil), The Queen Bee (the whore half of the virgin-whore dichotomy, the airhead, the giggling shallow embodiment of feminine = evil), The Weird Theater Kid (the kid who is actually weird, mind you, not like the protagonist), The Bully (the slightly different incarnation of The Dumb Jock who is often actually redeemed because he's just deeply ignorant and will eventually realize the error of his ways), The Mean Teacher (the one who hates the protagonist for no reason at all), The Nice Teacher (the one who loves the protagonist for no reason at all), The Tragic Goth (the girl who's beautiful, deep, probably skinny and pale while we're at it), The Loyal Sidekick (the guy who's slightly less good at everything than the protagonist and therefore exists solely to be his/her best friend), The Saint (the virgin half of the dichotomy), and The Swarm (the six or seven indistinguishable females with essentially the same attributes as the Queen Bee who exist only to worship her and put down the protagonist). And the plot basically revolves around what I often uncharitably assume is an excruciating revenge fantasy on the part of the bullied writer: the hero has conflicts with The Dumb Jock and/or The Queen Bee. The hero eventually reveals either superpowers or a boyfriend (depending on whether the protagonist is male or female, respectively) that makes the antagonist's eyes fall out with jealousy. The hero saves the life of the antagonist, leaving the antagonist either thanking the hero for his/her graciousness on bended knee or rejected by everyone else, who has swarmed over to go worship the hero instead.

And the thing is, from my limited sampling it actually seems to be a worse problem in teen fantasy/sci-fi than it does in other high school stories. There seems to be a chronic problem with stories like Vampire Diaries and Vampire Kisses where the vampire plot and the mundane plot are largely incompatible, barely interact except to give the protagonist a secret to lord over the antagonist(s), and one or the other fades completely to the background for most of the book. (The vamp plot disappears while the mundane plot comes to the fore more often than you'd think--Eighth Grade Bites, Sweetblood, and In the Forests of the Night all end up focusing so hard on the triumph of the nerd/goth over the jock/prep that they seem to forget that vampires exist in places.) The plot is driven by the assumption that OF COURSE the Dumb Jock is a terrible human being, OF COURSE the protagonist is Just Misunderstood, and OF COURSE anything nasty, judgmental, mean, or outright bullying that the protagonist says to the antagonist is entirely justified on the grounds that He Started It. There are probably lots of realistic fiction books that suffer from this same problem, but a) I’ve read a lot fewer of those, and b) I suspect that this kind of lazy characterization flies under the radar more when there are vampires or wizards there to distract people from just how awful the school story is, and c) I think this might even appeal to some publishers because vampire books are so often aimed at non-mainstream audiences.

First and foremost: this kind of thing is wrong because reinforcing stereotypes is wrong. Suggesting that an entire group of people is less intelligent, less complex, less human, or less deserving of love and happiness because of a single external attribute (such as quantity of makeup or presence of a letterman jacket) is wrong. Portraying entire groups of people as uniform and unappealing is wrong. All of that is obvious enough to hardly be worth writing down, but I feel the need to do so anyway after reading some of these books.

Where it crosses the line from driving me nuts to actually making me angry is that books have the power to influence behavior. (I’m in the process of writing my thesis on this effect.) These books portray genuinely awful beliefs and behaviors as acceptable, and I don’t want to know what those ideas are causing teens who read them to think. While it might be cool to suggest that unlikely heroes like The Weird Kid can save the world, that idea is no longer remotely radical anymore, and is now a cliche in and of itself. And often showing the “triumph” of the weird kid portrays really awful behavior as justified (name calling in I Am Number Four, slut shaming in Vampire Kisses, spreading malicious rumors in Vampire Academy, exposing others' secrets to harm them in Vladimir Tod) on the grounds that this is The Unpopular Kid (aka the stated hero) going up against The Popular Kid (aka the stated villain). And these books suggest that this behavior is okay. That revenge is a perfectly justifiable reason to be mean and nasty and say or do ugly things.

It also bears mentioning that the unpopular protagonist so often wins the contest on the antagonists' terms. It's often not the story of a character learning to love oneself or to value one's demographically appropriate 2.5 friends (The Wish by Gail Carson Levine is one awesome exception), it's the story of the protagonist's triumph through becoming more pretty, more beloved, better at football, better at bullying one's enemies, or more in control of the rumor mill than the antagonist.

The other thing is that this kind of writing can actually end up justifying a status quo in which kids are punished (with ostracism or mean rumors or being stuffed into lockers) for being "ugly" or "weird" or incorrectly dressed or socially unaware. Most of the social-outcast protagonists in these books are conventionally pretty, able to afford coordinated outfits, confident enough to express their uniquenesses, of average or below-average weight, in possession of above-average intelligence, socially aware, friendly, funny (more on that in a second), white, straight, fully abled, cis, American, and (with a couple notable exceptions) upper-middle class. I seriously question whether these books then accurately represent the dichotomy of the bullies vs. the bullied in real-world high schools. Unfortunately, it's usually the outsiders in a class who turn to bullying and frequently the insiders who are more or less nice, intelligent, mainstream, socially acceptable people.

Generally the most damning sin that marks the antagonists and gets punished time and again in these books is a lack of intelligence. And guess what? The kids who are apparently "clueless" or "dumb" in any given real life high school are often (although most certainly not always) a) from family environments that don't encourage them to focus on school, b) dealing with stuff that ranges from depression to autism that can get in the way of showing up to school every day bright-eyed and ready to learn, c) not coming from English-speaking households, or d) unable to afford (in the financial sense or the emotional resources sense) to devote time and energy to looking good, speaking well, and reading lots of books. Again, I'm massively oversimplifying it, but how about an awkward fringe vamp (or vamp lover) who is physically disabled? How about one that loves makeup? How about one who has terrible fashion sense but also excels at football?

Also, the fact that (shockingly) most high schools have more than two social groups means that as long as there is any kind of rivalry it's fairly easy to cast oneself as persecuted or an outsider even if that's not necessarily the only way to look at it. Which would then, according to these books, be sufficient justification to engage in a little social aggression of one's own. My group of friends in high school was composed entirely of socially awkward nerds, but that doesn't mean we would have had the right to start pushing people into snowbanks (Vampire Academy) or "outing" them as closet theater kids to punish them (Eighth Grade Bites) or deliberately trying to break up their romantic relationships to get even (Blue Bloods). People get picked on in high school for all kinds of awful reasons, and that doesn't mean that the correct solution should be more awfulness.

Meanwhile, there are lots of kids who are going through all kinds of hell in high school that is inflicted by their peers, and those kids often do not have a ton of great options when the administration can have limited power, their parents can't watch them 24 hours a day, and school counselors might not know what to do. Most of the time the persecution is real, not perceived, and most of the time the correct response to bullying is a form of limited ostracism or a form of external punishment acquired through telling adults about the situation, if there even is a correct response at all. That said, writing books that display a tiny shred of compassion for the popular kids or the aggressive kids or the preppy kids or the kids who like makeup and boys but don't fit in anyway wouldn't be the end of the world.

As Cates has said, it's always stretching the limits of believably to suggest that beautiful, intelligent, highly unique teenagers would ever not be well-liked by many people in their high school classes, because a combination of a smooth exterior and a confident interior is going to be one of the biggest forces driving one's upward social mobility in most teen social settings. Characters like Luna Lovegood of Harry Potter ("quirky" and therefore painfully socially awkward and punished for it) are relatively rare in YA fantasy literature compared to ones like the eponymous protagonist of Stargirl (good, unique, likable people who for some mysterious reason aren't liked at all), and half the protagonists I'm talking about are exactly Stargirl’s sort of smart, pretty, aggressively quirky teenager.

Circling back to the thing about the protagonist being "funny": you ever notice just how often that kind of humor is malicious? There are so often conflicts between the hero and the villain where the hero "wins" by mocking the villain more viciously than the villain mocked the hero. There's also a lot of behavior like that of Harry Potter’s Marauders (rebellion, whackiness, rule breaking, "having fun" at the expense of others, laughing at people rather than with them, letting pranks get to the point of bullying) on the part of these YA fantasy heroes that never gets called into question the way that the Marauders' behavior does. There's a world of difference between comedy that's based on irony or self-deprecation (most of what we see from Buffy the Vampire Slayer) and comedy that's based on mean-spirited mockery (Pride and Prejudice, to use my favorite love-to-hate example, for all its lack of vampires), and YA vampire books only too often rely on the latter type for their lighter moments. But the meanness tends to go without criticism as long as it's directed at the (unintelligent, sex-seeking, fashion-conscious) Lydia Bennets of the world.

A couple vampire books that I actually think get their portrayals of high school right: Twilight shows the Cullens as ostracized because they genuinely act weird (lurking in little groups, staring at people, never eating at lunch) and also has a complex miasma of shifting social groups rather than the "in" crowd and the "out" crowd, also taking the time to mention that "the best friend" (Jessica) is fairly surface-obsessed and that the quasi-antagonist of the class (Lauren) is a scared insecure kid who doesn't want to lose her popularity. Vampire Diaries (for all its many other flaws) also shows a high school with dozens of shifting cliques and protagonists who have social popularity, portraying a conventional bully in Tyler but rapidly making him more complex and sympathetic by rooting his aggression in his family struggles. Buffy the Vampire Slayer shows that Buffy's tendency to skip class and show up to dates with grave dirt in her hair gets in the way of her popularity, but also that most of the kids in her class are (gasp) decent human beings who take notice that she's their "class protector" and like her anyway. Percy Jackson deliberately sets up and then knocks down those stereotypes by having the shallow, popular, jock antagonist (SPOILERS) reveal hidden depths and then die to save the world... and then portrays the protagonist becoming the shallow, athletic top of the food chain in the sequel series.

And then, of course, there’s Animorphs, K.A. Applegate's story about a princess who becomes a fierce and terrible warrior, a criminal who acts as the heart and soul of his friend group, an athlete who plans out a strategy to save the world, a brain who becomes a Hollywood star, and a basket case who ends up joining the U.S. government. (Not sure where Ax fits in the Breakfast Club metaphor, but he also definitely starts out the shallow militarist who becomes a tough but adaptable diplomat.) Rachel and Jake, their school’s Queen Bee and Dumb Jock, respectively, are just two more sympathetic members of the team of heroes that saves the world in Animorphs. Almost like boys who enjoy sports and girls who enjoy buying clothes are real human beings capable of complex emotions or something.

I’m not asking writers to stop focusing their YA fantasy stories on the fringes of the high school social structure. I’m asking for more stories that portray even the popular kids with complexity, with compassion, and (at least occasionally) with brains. I'm asking for an end to the idea that social tit-for-tat is all okay as long as it's an outsider who is the aggressor. I’m asking for heroes that are socially clueless, or less intelligent than average, or not clear-skinned and slender and pale. There are too many stories out there right now that are downright cruel to huge subsets of teenagers, and I want stories that recognize the humanity of even those teenagers who happen to play on sports teams or enjoy going on dates.

- Bug