Paperback ©2016 | -- |
Gay youth.
Sexual minority youth.
Sexual orientation.
Gender identity.
Gay youths' writings.
Starred Review The 40 contributions to this invaluable collection about personal identity have two things in common: all are nonfiction and all are by writers under the age of 23. Beyond that, diversity is the order of the day, and the result is a vivid demonstration of how extraordinarily broad the spectrum of sexual identity is among today's gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, and questioning youth. That said, some of the topics addressed in these essays and poems are familiar (the agony of coming out, the heartbreak of religious opprobrium). What is new and encouraging, however, is that so many young people have felt free enough to share the truth about themselves in print and under their own names; as coeditor Levithan notes in his introduction, One way to effect change is to share truths. To tell our stories. Insightful, extraordinarily well written, and emotionally mature, the selections offer compelling, dramatic evidence that what is important is not what we are but who we are.
Horn Book (Wed Aug 01 00:00:00 CDT 2007)This fourth installment in the series has Eli, Thea, and Clyne time-traveling to cure slow pox, a plague that's crippling their society in 2020, but which has roots in ancient Jerusalem. The text is heavily reliant on earlier events and characters, and will seem hollow and confusing to readers who aren't already very familiar with the previous books.
Kirkus ReviewsForty essays by 13- to 23-year-olds range from sweet to salty to bitter—the flavors of growing up gay, lesbian or transgender in the contemporary world. Subjects include first love and first breakups, and relating to parents, siblings, friends and God. A queer Christian woman fights and preaches and waits until she can be ordained in the United Methodist Church. A femme gay boy supplies tampons to girls at school. Voices range from vernacular ("My dad found out I'm gay. Isn't it funny how, like, last week I was thinking about coming out to him and then BAM! he finds out)" to startlingly poetic ("My poems used to be shy; they used to stand in front of the mirror / and complain about their bloated syntax and pimpled thematic structure. / But now they leave the house in couplets. . . . "). Bisexual-themed content is under-represented, but transgender voices emerge strong. No story here will raise a blush—there's no explicit sex—but this emotionally spicy collection will inspire identification, compassion and hope in readers queer or not. (Nonfiction. YA)
Publishers Weekly (Fri Oct 06 00:00:00 CDT 2023)This collection succeeds in being truly inclusive. Editors Levithan (<EMPHASIS TYPE=""ITALIC"">Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, reviewed May 1) and Merrell have carefully selected young people with various identities, from gay and bisexual to transgendered, who tell their own stories through essays, poems and, in one case, photography. The candor of these tales will immediately grab the attention of readers. Narrators range from a gay Boy Scout backpacking instructor to a college student in Iowa struggling to carve out an ambiguous gender ("My problem is that I don't want this 'girl-thing' hanging over me. I'm caught between the effort of being a guy and the struggle to not forget where I'm from") to a girl finding the strength to tell her best friend that she loves her. Often heartbreaking, the stories also include plenty of difficult material, from physical abuse to homelessness, but also warm moments, such as a gay man remembering the night his older military-bound brother "telling me he loved me just the way I was." They can be funny, too (one gay student, who had always had a lot of female friends, begins carrying feminine hygiene products to school in order to show support for his girlfriends, something that "gained me the importance of a drug dealer"). The quality varies, but overall, readers will be impressed by the bravery of the young authors here, and the clarity with which they present their experiences. Ages 12-up. <EMPHASIS TYPE=""ITALIC"">(May)
School Library Journal (Sat Jul 01 00:00:00 CDT 2006)Gr 8 Up-Using works submitted anonymously through the Web site the authors created in conjunction with the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network (GLSEN), Levithan and Merrell have selected 40 essays, mini-autobiographies, poems, and photographs that chronicle the lives of 21st-century young people, ages 13 to 23. The handsomely dense package includes real-life stories about coming out, falling in and out of love, mistaken identities, families and friends, misplaced affection, confronting homophobia, and more. A female-to-male transsexual teen describes a first trip into the mens restroom. A young man recalls his close relationship with a trash-talking, pot-smoking, horror-movie-loving burnout, illustrating the blurry lines that exist between romance and friendship. While nearly half of the installments tell the stories of young gay men, a sizable chunk is devoted to lesbians, and more than half a dozen pieces are about transgendered youth. While many of the stories recall memories of isolation, others delve into a young persons awareness and involvement in a queer community. As a whole, the collection is comprehensive, complex, and the perfect title to put into the hands of teens who approach the information desk asking for real stories about coming out and coming to terms with anything remotely GLBTQ. Hillias J. Martin, New York Public Library
Voice of Youth AdvocatesForty people contributed to this collection, presenting the experiences of a new generation of young adults. The talent herein is as obvious as the pain, the sadness is as real as the relief, and the ugliness is as true as the beauty. The diversity in these stories seems amazing and logical as each person is unique from the others. Although a few entries get lost in ramblings and memories, the reader quickly realizes how it would be inappropriate to silence their voices yet again. Other stories are so skillfully crafted that the reader will become part of the experience and will wish that the story is one chapter in a full novel available now. This reviewer missed the interesting author biographies that one finds in other anthologies. The styles vary, with some stories told in straight narrative, and others in verse or letters. These last became favorites. Queer: Five Letters contains letters written to people whom Kat Wilson had known while growing up, including a fifth grade teacher, a chosen teenage role model, mother and father, the mother of a girl she tutored, and a family friend who died of AIDS. These brief letters weave together a survival story. Another person's story is told in The Most Important Letter of Our Life, written by JoSelle Vanderhooft at twenty-three to her sixteen-year-old self, warning and encouraging her teen self not to give up. A portion of the book's proceeds will be donated to GLSEN, the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network, a Web site validating survival. Find it at http://www.glsen.org.-C. J. Bott.
Starred Review ALA Booklist (Mon May 01 00:00:00 CDT 2006)
Starred Review for Publishers Weekly
Horn Book (Wed Aug 01 00:00:00 CDT 2007)
Kirkus Reviews
Publishers Weekly (Fri Oct 06 00:00:00 CDT 2023)
School Library Journal (Sat Jul 01 00:00:00 CDT 2006)
Voice of Youth Advocates
Wilson's High School Catalog
My first kiss was a girl.
It was almost like a pity kiss, a kiss to get me through that rite of passage, the way I wanted it. Rose was the only person who knew I liked girls, she was the only one I trusted enough to tell. We went to junior high together in a small town in Pennsylvania. She had frizzy hair and a mother who took Prozac and yelled a lot. Rose lived on this surreal plane of reality, allowing the world to be as dramatic as it was at the age of fifteen, and I loved her for that.
We were in color guard together. While marching band appeared to be lowest rung on the ladder of popularity, color guard managed to go even below that, to a subterranean territory of un-coolness. I don't really remember what we were doing there. I had played the trumpet but was always last chair, so when they told me I had to join marching band, that I had to go out in those stupid costumes under those bright football-game lights, I opted for color guard instead. As if wearing costumes of yellow spandex and glitter while tossing six-foot metal poles with red flags was a better option. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Rose and I were ugly, misfits. Most of the girls in color guard were social outcasts: frumpy girls too fat or too awkward for cheerleading. They became flag twirlers, "chicks with sticks." I remember how much the bus would stink with our sweat and girl smells, the odor of panty hose and too much eye shadow, coming home from cavalcades in the fall. The seats were made of a sticky material, and Rose and I would be squished in the small space, sitting beside each other. We would each have a headphone from my Walkman on, listening to Björk and trying to drown out the chatter of thirty girls talking about the new cute boy in the trombone section. The other girls knew we were weird and kind of left it at that. They didn't like me because I refused to wear makeup. The captain of the squad, a short, fat girl with greasy brown hair, would yell at me as she wielded red Maybelline lipstick. "It's part of the costume," she'd hiss, "You have to wear it." I finally conceded and let them smear the cheap colors on my face, only to get back at them the next week when I came to practice with my hair dyed blue with Manic Panic. It was the week before championships, and our coach cried when she saw me. "What are we going to do?" she sobbed, pointing at me like I had lost an appendage, as if I was completely incapable of spinning a flag now that my hair was blue. We borrowed a scratchy brown wig from the theater department and I had to be very careful not to turn my head too fast, lest the synthetic locks go flying off my head and land on the fifty-yard line as I marched past, performing a flag routine to some Gershwin song. Rose and I came to enjoy being the social outcasts of color guard. It was an extra badge of strangeness for us.
Besides, Rose and I were deep, much deeper than those other girls who read YM and wore sweaters from the Gap. Rose and I were into poetry, we would read e. e. cummings to each other over the phone, part of long marathon conversations about the meaning of life. We were fifteen, we were invincible, we were enlightened. I would get off the yellow school bus and run home, dropping my schoolbag and picking up the phone as soon as I came in. I would always lie on the gray carpet in the family room as we talked for hours. My brother would play Nintendo and sometimes scowl at the weird things I said about true love and art and suffering. Rose had spent a few months in a mental hospital when she was younger, so she was my idol as far as real-life drama went. She never really told me why, kept the story mysterious, only saying that one day in the car with her mother she said something about death that caused her mother to drive her straight to the psychiatric ward of the local state hospital. I was fascinated. Rose was my Sylvia Plath, my muse and my heroine. As we trundled through the muddy waters of adolescence, I could tell Rose anything I felt, and she would agree, validating my virgin emotions. It was in all this intensity that I fell in love with her.
Rose had a boyfriend. He was kind of pudgy and had a really annoying laugh. They would hold hands as we walked around the mall, drinking milk shakes from the Dairy Queen. I didn't like it when they held hands. Her boyfriend couldn't understand how deep Rose and I were. I humored him because Rose did.
"Do you love him?" I would ask on the phone, watching the blocks of sunlight that came in through the window make patterns on the carpet. Rose would sigh dramatically.
"Yes, but I don't think he knows. I don't think he understands love like I do."
I nodded emphatically. I understood love. Rose and I had charted the entire emotion out in terms of desire, affection, and completion. Solitude was to be savored, but being in love was a privilege.
It was this concept of affection that stalled our philosophies on love and intimacy, because I hadn't been kissed before. Once a boy at the roller rink in the seventh grade tried to kiss me, but I turned my face away and mumbled something about having a cold. There was something about boys I just didn't want. I would act like I wanted them, imagine that somewhere in the world there was a sensitive boy with long hair who played guitar and read books on feminism, and he would be my boyfriend. Then I would kiss boys. But at a high school where the homecoming football games were so big the whole town shut down for the occasion, I wasn't holding my breath on finding a sensitive, artistic boyfriend anytime soon.
Excerpted from The Full Spectrum: A New Generation of Writing about Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, Transgender, Questioning, and Other Identities by David Levithan, Billy Merrell
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Teens are more aware of sexuality and identity than ever, and they’re looking for answers and insights, as well as a community of others. In order to help create that community, YA authors David Levithan and Billy Merrell have collected original poems, essays, and stories by young adults in their teens and early 20s. The Full Spectrum includes a variety of writers—gay, lesbian, bisexual, straight, transitioning, and questioning—on a variety of subjects: coming out, family, friendship, religion/faith, first kisses, break-ups, and many others.
This one of a kind collection will, perhaps, help all readers see themselves and the world around them in ways they might never have imagined. We have partnered with the Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN) and a portion of the proceeds from this book will be donated to them.