Love in the Time of Banned Books #8 | "Always and Forever" by Maggie Saunders
- julian32019
- Jul 2
- 8 min read
Art by Pooja Verma
Introduction by Daniel Applebaum
"Always and Forever" by Maggie Saunders
"For I Had You." Artwork by Pooja Verma
Note: This piece was previously published on the artist's social media feed: https://www.instagram.com/magnolia._stars/
Pooja Verma is a painter from Irvington High School in California. She takes nature as her greatest muse, crafting imagery that reflects the diversity of the world around us. She's also the owner of a small art business that donates a portion of its proceeds to conservation organizations- Magnolia Stars Art (@magnolia._stars on Instagram)! She loves publishing her work in magazines and competitions in her free time, and is so incredibly excited to be featured in such a meaningful blog post, as an avid lover of beautiful writing herself!
Introduction
In "Always and Forever," by Maggie Saunders, the narrator's unfailing and unfailingly-reciprocated love for her family is always present. Yet, despite the title, Saunders deftly navigates the emotional vicissitudes and moments of unease that pervade the narrator's process of awakening to and embracing her sexuality. Indeed, much of the story reads as simultaneously a confession and a love letter to her sister—and herself.
"Always and Forever" winches into focus the emotional paradoxes that are frequently at the center of LGBTQ+ youth experiences. From the beginning of the story, the narrator's emotional honesty radiates in her admission to having a "love-hate" relationship with her sister. The act of embracing this contradiction underscores the complex mesh of emotions and desires that often accompany queer childhood.
On the spectrum of LGBTQ+ youth experiences, the narrator of "Always and Forever" seems to slipstream her way into a liminal position marked by tentative acceptance of her identity. Ironically, it is during the Pride Parade designed to uplift queer identity—–rather than the often-fraught process of "coming out" to her parents, which she and her parents sail through with flying colors —that the narrator experiences the most doubt. The sting of her mother's judgemental comments serve as a reminder to allow young queer children to feel secure in exploring their identities.
Saunders' story ultimately situates this exploration of identity within the intimacy of family, abandoning the clinical word "gender" for the more personal pronoun "you" (in reference to the narrator's sister). At the center of the story lies sisterhood, defined by traditional sibling rivalry that is complicated—and enriched—by bisexuality, a bond that tethers older and younger sisters together. By the end of the story, learning to love her sister teaches the narrator to love herself.
In "Always and Forever," Saunders reminds us that it is only through the often-fragile, often-fraught, always-healing process of knotting familial and community bonds that we can learn to heal and love the tenderest parts of ourselves.
"Always and Forever"
by Maggie Saunders
I have always hated you.
Not in the “I cannot stand to be in a room with you for longer than three seconds” kind of hatred, but more the “I hate watching you get to be a child whilst I grow up” kind of hatred, the “you annoy me to no end” kind of hatred, the longing to be as likeable as you are kind of hatred—the kind of hatred that can only be felt by a sibling; the kind of hatred that is not really hatred, but instead a form of love.
What I mean to say is that I have always loved you, even when I was not the best at showing it.
In my very first memory of you, I am sitting in an armchair. It is a sort of brownish green color. Our mother lays in a hospital bed, and our dad stands behind me. In my arms rests a bundle of scratchy hospital blankets, your face, wrinkled and red, peering out at me. I remember singing to you as you cried, in my out-of-tune, four-year-old voice, as you peered up at me with blue eyes that were too big for your face, my heart overflowing.
Throughout the years, our relationship has been... rocky, mainly due to my jealousy of you. My jealousy of the way our parents had to devote all their attention to the new baby, my jealousy of your childhood, as you remained a kid while I grew up and away from all of that, my jealousy of you not having to suffer the chaotic, tangled mess that is my mind. My jealousy of your personality, your very self, the way that kids your age seemed to flock to you like blackbirds to a wire, the way making friends always came so easily to you, the way you were a vibrant social butterfly to my moth.
Queerness was never a thing that was discussed in our family—oh, it was accepted, was never hidden from us, but it was never talked about, either. I knew of it, but only in a vague way. To my younger self, queerness was like the size of the universe: something you could know of, even wonder about on occasion, but never really understand, never comprehend.
Then came fifth grade, my voracious love of reading leading to me discovering a litany of books featuring queer characters. That, combined with my newly granted access to the internet led to me facing an onslaught of confusion caused by my attraction to others’ femininity, and the subtle, yet not nonexistent, rejection of my own.
I didn’t tell our parents about my bisexuality until the summer before seventh grade, and even that was sort of an accident, a heat-of-the-moment confession. I was faced with love and affection—memories resurface of my face buried in our father’s neck—any lingering fears I’d had about revealing this truth quashed immediately. I was—and still am—incredibly grateful to not have been faced with hatred in that moment.
That June, our parents took me—us—to our first pride parade. I’d thought it would be a place to find joy among people who loved and lived and thought like I did. Instead, the heat and noise and constant press of sweaty bodies crushed into a too-small space had me struggling to breathe through the anguish of sensory overload. While that experience was one I consider to be negative, it was also an important turning point in our relationship.
You were holding our mother’s hand, and I was walking behind the two of you, eyes wide as I stared at the abundance of glittery, colorful outfits within my field of vision. Though I was being deafened by a cacophony of music and joyful screams, I could still hear you say, in your mumble-y voice, that you thought you might be gay.
As you said that, I felt a strange mixture of happiness and surprise. My first thought was that you were a little young to know that, but I immediately dismissed the thought. After all, you weren’t much younger than I was when I began questioning my sexuality, though, in my mind, you’ll always be my baby sister. My second thought was the joy and excitement that can only come from finding someone with whom you share an integral aspect of your identity.
Oh sure, my friends were and are all queer, but there is such a difference between the acceptance that comes from finding a community of similar individuals outside of your family, and finding solace in the shared queerness of someone who lives within your home.
No longer would I have to subject my friends to my terrible puns about bisexuality, no longer would they be the only people I could talk to whenever I found myself struggling with the cloud of confusion that was gender, for I had you. I’d always felt like there was a chasm between us, something I desperately wanted to cross but was never quite sure how to, but I thought this shared aspect of our identities might have been enough to build a bridge that would finally connect us.
My joy only lasted for a moment, maybe two, before it fell apart.
Now, I love our parents very deeply, and while I know that love is returned, I think that they—our mother, especially—struggled, a bit, with being supportive after I came out. This was especially evident in her response to you, which boiled down to “you’re too young to be thinking about something as inappropriate as sexuality,” which was one of the worst things she could have said in that moment.
Our mother’s words ruined the moment like red dye staining a yellow dress. You immediately went back on what you’d just said, and denied your confession when I tried to ask about it later that night.
It was then that I promised myself I would be a better sibling than I had been before. Like all sibling relationships, ours was fraught with conflict, both of us enjoying annoying the other as much as, if not more than, we enjoyed spending time together. You were equally as likely to hear me scream “get out of my room!” as you were to hear me say I loved you.
But I did—and do—love you, and I wanted to be better. When I was younger, I’d often wished I had an older sister, and as I grew up, I managed to find something like that in my favorite aunt. She was my closest confidant—I could talk to her about anything and everything. I know, without a doubt, that she’s someone who will keep all my secrets without judging me for any of them.
But you didn’t have someone like that, so I decided to be that for you. I would be the cool older sibling who giggled about books with you and teased you about your crushes and made plans of taking you out to the mall or McDonald’s once I got my driver’s license. I would be someone to confide in, to make inside jokes with, to talk to about all your deepest anxieties and fears.
And then, two years later, when I sat at the foot of your bed and you whispered, “I’m bisexual,” I cradled your secret close to my chest like a baby bird, delicate and soft.
After that moment, you became more than my sister—you became one of my best friends. Our late night conversations happened more frequently and were filled with laughter as we joked about pretty girls or made horrible puns. I recounted my exploits to pride festivals, recommended you books with characters who loved like us, hugged you as you told me about your anxieties about coming out to our parents, and jokingly offered to punch any of the homophobic kids in your school who bothered you, because, while I might be generally pretty weak, I’m almost certain I could beat up a fifth grader.
As you’ve grown up and up and up into the inquisitive, funny, wonderful person you are, I’ve begun to see myself in you. The jealousy I once harbored for you in my youth has faded, and I’ve begun to love you—and even myself—more than I once would have thought possible.
When you came out to our parents, just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t have been more proud of you. And as I hug you before you go to sleep, or laugh at the ridiculousness of the puppets on the Muppet Show with you, or chase you around the swimming pool, I know that, despite our differences, I have, and will, always love you.
About "Love in the Time of Banned Books"
In this series, we seek to celebrate LGBTQ+ identities and experiences, while critically examining book bans and how they impact the LGBTQ+ community.
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