Issue 8: Growing Up is Hard to Do
Hey there!
We’re back, and it’s been too long. Honestly, there were several times over the last few months when we considered not returning at all, thanks to real life and the stresses that come with it—family emergencies, job changes, and just plain old inspiration drain. But now that we’ve finally hustled another issue to publication, it feels just wonderful to get back in the groove, unpacking our favorite stories. This month we’re covering two that focus on the shifts in perspective necessary to growing up, with Alex revisiting the tangled family dynamics of 2003’s Peter Pan and Claudia discussing Murder Most Unladylike, a middle grade detective series about outsiders, friendship, and queer girlhood (among other things).
Alex on Peter Pan (2003)
I first saw Peter Pan backstage at a ballet recital around sixteen years ago. Back then, it would have killed me to admit that at its core this movie is about family and forgiveness. The bittersweet romance brewing between Wendy and Peter hooked me in first—I could watch those two bonding over pirate battles and fairy dances forever. Wendy’s tense relationships with the adults in her life, on the other hand, scared me. Mr. Darling, who worked a stressful job and flew off the handle when he felt disrespected, reminded me uncomfortably of my own dad. Mrs. Darling was too sweet and patient to intervene. Worst of all, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Darling stood up to Aunt Millicent, the conventional-to-a-fault spinster relative who’s nonexistent in the original Peter Pan but essential to this adaptation.
Marriage is the first thing on Aunt Millicent’s mind when she notices that Wendy’s started to mature, and obviously “the daughter of a clerk cannot hope to marry as well as that of a manager.” She persuades Mr. Darling to make small talk at work in order to impress his superiors, and she insists that learning to be a young lady trumps Wendy’s actual ambitions. Aunt Millicent doesn’t care that Mr. Darling is painfully bad at schmoozing, or that, thanks to her, Wendy becomes so afraid of growing up that she flies away the first chance she gets. When the painfully bad schmoozing ends with humiliation at work, and Mr. Darling lashes out at Wendy, does Aunt Millicent stop to consider that everyone’s miserable now and it’s her fault? Not a chance. The Darlings are awkward and a little weird, but it never occurs to Aunt Millicent that being awkward and weird is better than being something you’re not, because Aunt Millicent is the worst.
Over years of rewatching, “Aunt Millicent is the worst” was usually as deep as my analysis went—though, to be honest, Peter Pan doesn’t always encourage deep analysis. It’s a broad-strokes retelling of Peter and Wendy, more interested in splashy set pieces than subtle implications. I’m still obsessed with the Peter-Wendy romance, but these days I grit my teeth through the awkward puberty metaphors, and the family angst feels shoehorned in: Aunt Millicent is almost indistinguishable from every other uptight spinster aunt in every other movie starring a spunky, unconventional girl.
Still, all that family angst works for me. Peter Pan’s adults interest me so much more than they used to, because they scare me exactly like they used to. Wendy learns that Mr. Darling gave up his own ambitions in order to support the family, and it’s hard not to read a similar regret into Aunt Millicent’s obsession with marriage and propriety. Though her characterization is mostly stereotypical, there are hints of painful complications beneath the surface. In Peter Pan, adulthood is defined by self-sacrifice and missed opportunities, roads not taken. No wonder Wendy escapes it all.
Except she doesn’t. Some dreams just don’t pan out, even in Neverland. And in Neverland, Wendy realizes she actually wants what her aunt and father wanted for her—marriage, or at least the possibility of a more mature relationship. Though Peter cares for her, he doesn’t (or can’t) want the same.
For a while they play house, becoming a mini-version of the Darlings. Peter’s the mercurial dad, Wendy’s the level-headed mom; John, Michael, and the Lost Boys are their unruly kids. Soon, though, disillusionment sets in. When Wendy discovers that John and Michael have forgotten their real parents, the final choice clicks into place for her. This family isn’t real. The Darlings are, warts and all, and she needs to get back to them. She needs to grow up.
Wendy’s choice is buried pretty quickly under the pileup of romantic drama, but it’s her most crucial turning point. She accepts that she’ll grow up through accepting her family’s flaws and forgiving them; maybe her forgiveness has scared me the most all along. Peter Pan gets that being a kid—maybe the biggest part of being a kid—is knowing you’ll be so much better than your parents. You’ll never give up on your dreams. Giving them up because of your family is an excuse, and excuses are weaknesses and adults shouldn’t have weaknesses. If their dreams can change, yours can change. You’ll change. That’s terrifying.
But by the end of Peter Pan, Wendy has changed. And since first watching it, I’ve changed, too. I still gag every time Aunt Millicent calls marriage “the greatest adventure of all,” but isn’t it time to admit she does (sort of) have a point? Family relationships scaffold Wendy’s entire story. The biggest risks she faces are that she’ll forget her family, that by failing to accept the imperfect, changeful adults around her she’ll fail to accept her own growth as a person. What I didn’t realize that first time, cringing at the Darling’s imperfections, is that the pirate battles and fairy dances are garnishes for the messy, thrilling human relationships that are Peter Pan’s greatest adventures of all.
Claudia on the Murder Most Unladylike series
Last year, I wrote about girl detectives for the Los Angeles Review of Books. In that article, I argued that detective stories like The Westing Game and the recent Enola Holmes adaptation function as a way for the heroines to discover who they are and find their place in a society that has little patience for their talents. I’m returning to this argument for this essay today, because I think Robin Steven’s Murder Most Unladylike series is an especially noteworthy example, dealing with minority and queer girlhood (two groups not traditionally found in this genre), and using the Hazel Wong and Daisy Wells’s adventures to parallel their growing understanding of each other and themselves.
The backbone of the series is the friendship between Hazel, the daughter of a wealthy Hong Kong family and the books’ narrator, and Daisy, a hugely conceited and vastly charming child of an English lord. The two meet when Hazel is sent to a British boarding school, where Daisy’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and athletic prowess make her an exemplar of the English schoolgirl Hazel is constantly reminded she can never be. Bonded together by Daisy’s insatiable love of detection and a bad habit of stumbling across bodies and murder plots, the two run wild at their school and crisscross Europe, Asia, and Africa over the course of nine novels and several short story collections. (Only the first five books got a U.S. release, but, via the magic of international shipping, the entire series is easily available.)
With Hazel as the tale-teller, most of the internal conflict revolves around her feelings of isolation as the only person of color at her boarding school. Stevens has a sharp eye for the seemingly small slights and assumptions that can pile up day after day. The fact that most of her classmates’ discrimination comes from ignorance rather than malice doesn’t make it any less harmful. Also frustrating is the distance she feels growing between herself and her family as she becomes more acclimatized to British life, and more invested in her detective work. Her feelings of rootlessness in her home and adopted cultures resonate, giving her an eye for detail and ability for empathy that drives her formidable skill at investigating.
While Hazel’s struggles take center stage, ticking away in the background are Daisy’s own questions of identity and feelings of rootlessness. The question of her sexuality is built up over six books, with her vocal disinterest in marriage and determination to stay partners with Hazel forever providing tantalizing clues. It’s gratifying to see Daisy’s queerness confirmed in Death in the Spotlight, where she develops a crush on an actress whose innocence they are trying to prove. Even more so is Hazel’s acceptance of her friend: “there was an obvious solution to the mystery: what Daisy struggled to understand was not simply that I was in love but that I was in love with a boy.” Despite their differences, the two girls are able to use their own feelings of loneliness and uncertainty to connect with each other.
The mysteries that Hazel and Daisy solve bring them together, helping to create bridges of love and understanding between two very different individuals in two very different cultures. In carving out a space for their friendship, they also push the boundaries of the genre, showing that marginalized and queer girls can not only survive as detectives—they can also thrive.
It's another month down, and almost a year since we started this newsletter. To our readers—thank you so very much for sticking with us! We’ll be returning in December for issue 9.
Till next time,
Alex and Claudia