The love story at the center of Netflix’s new show “Forever” begins the same way Judy Blume’s 1975 novel, the inspiration for the series, does: at a New Year’s Eve party over pots of fondue.
Told to us from high school senior Katherine’s perspective, Blume’s “Forever…” is a groundbreaking and frank examination of teenage sex and first love. Since its initial publication in the 1970s, many parents have been outraged over the book, demanding its removal from library shelves. I read “Forever…” for the first time far too late in my life — October of last year, after Blume, one of my white whale interviews, finally agreed to join the Velshi Banned Book Club. I expected to love the book — and I did. But I didn’t expect it to feel so revolutionary.
If Blume’s “Forever...” was radical because it depicted a young white woman’s sexual desire and unashamed pleasure, then Akil’s “Forever” is revolutionary for its depiction of a young Black man’s vulnerability and conscientious decisions around sex and love.
Netflix’s “Forever,” still as sweet, poignant and honest as the novel, has made some meaningful updates to Blume’s source material. Most critically, our central couple, Keisha and Justin, are Black. Showrunner Mara Brock Akil explained the decision to The New York Times, saying, “I would posit that Black boys are the most vulnerable at this time.”
Instead of in a New Jersey suburb, the show is set amid the Black Lives Matter movement in Los Angeles. As such, cellphones are a masterfully rendered extension of our young characters and their relationships. The show, alternating between Keisha’s and Michael’s viewpoints, has subverted Blume’s characters: It is Justin who is sexually inexperienced, deciding whether he is ready or not. If Blume’s “Forever...” was radical because it depicted a young white woman’s sexual desire and unashamed pleasure, then Akil’s “Forever” is revolutionary for its depiction of a young Black man’s vulnerability and conscientious decisions around sex and love.
Keisha’s relationship with sex is nuanced. On their first date, she is free and willing to explore with Justin. But in the next scene, we learn that Keisha’s ex-boyfriend, a golden boy named Christian with apparent NBA prospects, taped a pornographic video of the two of them and shared it online. Later, over FaceTime, Keisha tells her best friend, the only consistent white character in the show, that she has no desire to punish Christian and “ruin his life.” It’s quiet for a moment, then her friend asks, “But Christian gets to ruin yours?” This tragically common act of sexual violence feels like a modern and necessary raising of the stakes.
The possible consequences of having sex are elucidated in Blume’s “Forever…” as well. There, Katherine is surrounded by them: There are cautionary tales, from dreams postponed to slut-shaming to unwanted pregnancy. Critically, these consequences don’t befall Katherine. She is a nice girl who has sex and retains her dignity, her sense of self and her bright future.
There is a passage a few chapters into “Forever….” where Katherine reflects on how a young woman’s choice to have sex defines her. “In the old days girls were divided into two groups — those who did and those who didn’t. My mother told me that. Nice girls didn’t, naturally. They were the ones boys wanted to marry. I’m glad those days are over but I still get angry when older people assume that everyone in my generation screws around.” The sentiment that the virginal good girls are the ones who get the good husbands and birth the good children and have the good lives is certainly well trodden. That isn’t what is so shocking about this passage. It is that 50 years ago, Blume’s high school character is exalting the end of something that has definitely not gone away.
50 years ago, Blume’s high school character is exalting the end of something that has definitely not gone away.
While no generation is a monolith, young people today are far more conservative and regressive than the generations that preceded them. Gen Zers are notoriously Republican-leaning, they’re joining the Catholic Church in rising numbers, and more of them are not having sex as a choice. According to a recent poll from the London-based newspaper The Times, 62% of Gen Z respondents said they don’t have one-night stands.
Perhaps the stakes have been raised to untenable heights now. Sexual violence is prolific. A video could conceivably circulate of any intimate moment, just like it did for Keisha. Health care is no longer guaranteed to many who might need an abortion. When I was single and in my 20s — older than the characters in either version of “Forever” — part of getting ready for a date included texting your best friend to confirm your location settings were working “just in case” the worst should happen.
The sad and frustrating irony is that this conversation is central to the sex-positive, second-wave feminism that made Blume’s “Forever…” even possible. The straw man argument that the burden of safety should fall on the most vulnerable is perpetuated by a broken patriarchal system. Choosing to have sex should not mean choosing between freedom and safety.
What I love most about this story, be it written in a novel or depicted on your television screen, is not its radically honest discussion about young people and sex. It is how it embraces the weighty complexity of that and still retains the pure joy of first love. There is risk and excitement and danger and reward in falling in love and in having sex. For those lucky enough, that first love is a beautiful part of life, maybe the most beautiful part of life. Being young and in love is one of the most powerful forces on Earth. This story is a salient reminder of that.