The shores of Childhood
Lethargic cottage days stretch a young girl’s understanding in Mariko and Jillian Tamaki’s This One Summer
This One Summer By Mariko Tamaki and Jillian Tamaki Groundwood Books 319 pp; $18.95
Interacting with any piece of art as somebody outside its intended demographic presents a special set of critical challenges. As a fully fledged grown-up that frequently reads young adult literature (that category of books aimed at the teen set) for both work and pleasure, I find myself grading their quality on an entirely different curve. The best young adult books tend to capture the terror and giddiness that comes with first experiences and new freedoms, offering a source of recognition to its target audience.
With their graphic novel This One Summer, writer Mariko Tamaki and artist Jillian Tamaki create a new approach to YA lit: a tale of teen angst told through the eyes of children. The book is narrated by preteen Rose, a girl old enough to not require constant adult supervision but young enough to avoid getting into real trouble. Rose and her parents are spending their summer at Awago beach. Summer is a frequent theme in coming-of-age stories, in that the two-month break from rules and structure for those young enough to actually have a vacation offers an infinite number of possibilities.
Much of Rose’s time at Awago beach is spent with her younger friend Windy, the candid and effervescent yang to Rose’s introspective yin. The girls are in that transition period between “playing” and “hanging out.” They loaf on the beach, they dance, they talk about crushes on boys and one day growing into their bodies. They share misinformation about sex, playground gossip. They are obsessed with the teenagers who work at and frequent the local corner store. Rose in particular has a crush on Dunc, the lanky, slacker counter attendant. He is having trouble with his girlfriend, Jenny, who may or may not be pregnant. The scenes with the teenagers play out in the background while Rose and Windy watch on, fascinated, a personal audience to a soap opera unfolding before their eyes.
Mariko’s strengths as a writer lie in her subtlety and her ability to convey whole worlds of feeling within a few lines of dialogue. The story is slow burning, matching the tempo of long, lethargic summer days in which the promise of dramatic change is always impending, always ambiguous. Deciding to present the story in a graphic novel
Mariko’s strengths lie in her ability to convey worlds within a few lines
format allows us to inhabit the worlds of the characters outside of their minds. Brief conversations can be spread out over pages whereas major plot points can land in a matter of a few panels. It forces a pacing that encapsulates the lazy anxiousness of growing up. They are enhanced by Jillian’s illustrations, a wash of lavender-tinted greys that give the book a hazy vibe.
Presenting the lives of high schoolers from the other side — that is, seeing their stories from perspective of innocent Rose rather than as jaded adults — makes the lives of teenagers seem foreign and glamorous. Their acne and ill-fitting crop tops aren’t associated with the cringe-laced nostalgia that comes with leaving the awkward years behind. Instead, it holds a promise of a life of boys, sex, breasts and other signifiers of maturity. The girls want to grow up, but they want to do it in a hyperspecific way, one that allows for freedom and adventure without any of the trappings or burdens of maturity.
In one scene, Windy and Rose come home from the corner store with a rented copy of Friday the 13th. Home alone, they turn off the lights and crowd excitedly around the laptop screen. Rose is unimpressed by the antics of the movie’s female characters. “It sort of seems like every bad thing in this movie happens because of a girl,” she says. “Like, obviously you won’t get stabbed if you’re not in the dark, so don’t go there and then scream your head off !” She speaks with the self-assuredness of someone who is becoming increasingly aware of how the world works without any experience to put her theories to practice. She is a practised spectator, impatient to become the main character in her own story, positive that she won’t make the same mistakes that the grown-ups around her did.
A few panels later, Rose leaves Windy’s cabin to head home. Outside is dark, quiet, empty and vast. In one fullpage spread, she sprints through eerily lit yards, unsure if she is running from the threat of chainsaw wielding maniacs or the harsh realities of what leaving childhood behind actually entails: It’s much easier to critique the mistakes of horror movie victims than it is to actually offer new solutions. Jillian’s full page illustrations are engrossing as Rose is a speck in the distance, small against the world that wants to envelop her. When she finally makes it back to her cabin, she slams the door behind her and laughs in relief. Rose is convinced she’s got it all figured out. She just hasn’t lived yet.