Why “Forever” is the love story we’ve always needed

I have to preface this by saying I have never read Forever or at least I don’t remember it if I did. I haven’t read a Judy Blume book in a very long time, though I do remember reading her books as a child, starting with the Fudge series and, later, stories like Deenie.

But for me, a child who was always looking for herself in books, I had other options that better suited me when I finally began looking for love stories. Books like the Drama High series from L. Divine or Dana Davidson’s Jason and Kyra (I read this book more times than I can count), were a template for the young Black love that was already happening around me. The characters here weren’t as advanced as Tracy of Omar Tyree’s Flyy Girl or Sister Souljah’s Winter Santiaga, but they were open to love, rich in vulnerability, and just trying to figure it out.

Jason and Kyra, along with Davidson’s other offering, Played, were kind of revolutionary in this genre because while most of these stories centered a female perspective, these stories also voiced the male inner monologue — the flawed decision making and external pressure that defines Black boyhood away from the white gaze.

In all of these books, the white gaze was, if not completely absent, fairly minimal, which resonated with me deeply because that’s how I grew up — in my Black bubble of Prince George’s County, Maryland, during a time when all the nearest cities were also majority Black. Davidson’s stories were like a mirror for me — there was no trauma, violence, drugs or gangs, yet they were still us.

But in television, away from the world of books that I was ushered into by Black teachers and Black bookstores, I had more flawed examples.

By the 2000s when I was becoming a teenager, the black teenage stories that dominated the nineties were fading away. Tia, Tamera, Brandy and the like were all grown and only Kyla Pratt’s One on One served as representation. In place of these shows came Gossip Girl, 90210 and a gamut of other CW shows that relegated Black characters to tokens or sidekicks, if they were included at all. Rarely did I see a Black girl as a main character or a central love interest.

With Forever, Mara Brock Akil rectifies this and gives me something I didn’t even know I needed. Akil addresses and dismantles so many of the lies told about Black adolescence, building in its place a story that is as complex as it is simple. In eight episodes, she manages to construct a narrative that acknowledges classism, de-centers whiteness and challenges sexism, all while ensuring that none of these themes override the main point — that this is a love story. Love is the driver of this narrative and it never falls second to any of the other narrative objectives.

But perhaps most importantly, she shows a Black girl who is not perfect … being loved, pursued, desired and admired by a young Black boy whose trying to figure out how to love her and himself at the same time.

Through this narrative, Akil leads a masterclass in storytelling. Akil highlights the many facets of the Black community — showing a life in the hood without denigrating the people or conditions there, demonstrating that affluence can still have imperfections. She celebrates all of it, even as her characters voice all the judgements we so often cast on one another.

But perhaps most importantly, she shows a Black girl who is not perfect, who makes mistakes, who does not fit conventional beauty standards, but is nonetheless gorgeous, being loved, pursued, desired and admired by a young Black boy whose trying to figure out how to love her and himself at the same time.

I’ll be honest. I didn’t think I would like this adaptation. Going back to my earlier statement, Judy Blume wasn’t really my jam. I enjoyed her stories, just as I enjoyed The Clique and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants but they were windows into lives that were not my own.

This series is also a racialized adaptation telling a story that once featured white characters, with a Black cast. I won’t name names, but I’ve hated these kinds of adaptations in the past, and I was praying Akil wouldn’t flop a near perfect TV record on this endeavor.

Moreover, I was wary of the casting — the unknown Michael Cooper Jr. up against Lovie Simone, who I was familiar from Greenleaf. The trailers I’d seen didn’t convince me of their chemistry and I wasn’t sure about seeing Simone in another teenage role so many years after her last one.

*spoilers ahead*

But not only did Forever deliver — it kept me up until 5:00 am, gripped by the story. Take everything you know about Judy Blume (I’m talking to the younger millineals and Gen-Z’rs) — the dated language, the faded library pages, the overt “whiteness” of it all and drown it in color. I’m not just talking about the cast, I’m talking about the visual love letter to LA and all it’s multifaceted communities that is laced throughout the show. The shots of sun-soaked palm trees, LA’s many Asian neighborhoods, the picturesque lookouts in the hills — all of it captured the essence of Blume’s youthful love story in a way that was unmistakably modern — and Black.

Watching [Keisha] be loved by Justin was a practice in healing for every girl whose ever believed herself unloveable because of a bad decision.

The cultural specificity didn’t even need to be said. The scenes of View Park and Ladera Heights, the episode shot in Oak Bluffs in Martha’s Vineyard, and the soundtrack… everything from HER to Tyler the Creator — all of it was a call back to Black culture, style and community.

And let’s talk about the main characters.

The casting for Justin. Wow. Michael Cooper Jr. (who I’d never seen or heard of before this series) gave an immaculate portrayal of a young man with ADHD who is self-described as “weird” and is deeply feeling. Watching him and my fave, Wood Harris, in those intimate father-son moments where he’s literally just teaching him how to be — it was so moving. Harris portrays the father that all young men need , sensing but challenging, protective yet proactive. He gives Justin the space to grow into manhood, but does not leave him deserted on that path.

And Michael Cooper Jr. plays beautifully into the awkwardness and vulnerability that we all know is there but that we very rarely get to see in young Black men. We can see clearly the pressure his character feels trying to make it to college on a basketball scholarship. Akil seamlessly demonstrates the politics and shortcomings of the sports world so many young Black men view as their only option. Through Justin, and Keisha’s father, played by William Catlett, we see how tenuous the sports world can be — one wrong move or external decision could change your career trajectory and how these careers can leave young men lost and wanting more often than they actually deliver on promises of grandeur.

Then there’s the sex tape between Keisha and a former boyfriend, also a basketball player, albeit one with more hype than Justin. The sex tape has ruined Keisha’s life, cost her a private school scholarship, her dignity and her reputation. We meet her as she’s just emerging out of self-imposed social exile, trying to build her life and reach her goal of attending Howard University. From her first encounter with Justin, we see her approach him and throughout their early encounters, we watch her try fiercely to protect what is left of her broken heart.

Watching her be loved by Justin was a practice in healing for every girl whose ever believed herself unloveable because of a bad decision. The grace and empathy he meets her with each time she pushes him away or rejects him makes him so compelling as a character — a hero of Pride and Prejudice standards.

And seeing her fumble his affection again and again and again was probably the most frustrating thing about the first few episodes. I wanted to scream at her to just give him a [insert expletive] chance. Even more frustrating was watching Keisha, almost in real time, weighing Justin’s affection for her while fielding apologies from her ex. It’s clear Keisha’s desire to forgive her ex is mostly tied to her desire to forget the entire sex tape ordeal and move past being the girl he humiliated so carelessly.

The silver lining of it all was seeing a Black girl in a love triangle . Growing up those were mostly reserved for white heroines of Romantasy novels (think Vampire Diaries, Twilight, Hunger Games etc.). It was the height of desirability to be at the center of a love triangle — so seeing Keisha in that position, with not one, but two, highly eligible ballers on her line, was refreshing (if frustrating at times).

Keisha’s self-assurance and maturity (she is very clearly that girl) is a driving force in the story. It’s clear she knows where she’s going and how to get there. She’s what Justin clings to when he feels vulnerable, what guides him into the person he needs to be. It’s a beautiful passing of the torch with Keisha slowly becoming the comfort that Justin might have once run to his mom for (we won’t even get started on her- played by Karen Pittman, she gave every bit of the annoying, overprotective mother you might remember from your adolescence).

Through both Keisha and Justin’s stories, Akil illustrates the realities and dangers faced by Black children in white spaces. These institutions, often touted as “the best” are oftentimes not what’s best for Black children. We see that in how Justin’s basketball career is derailed by a coach who is more inclined to give court time to the children of wealthy boosters and in how Keisha is discarded after the sex tape scandal, without her parent even being properly notified by the school.

Akil masterfully glides through the landscape of adolescence — parents, peers, parties and the pressure of trying to decide who you want to be. At the center of it all is a couple so full of love, with a story that is certainly worth rooting for.

Forever is exactly what I didn’t know I was missing. It’s Love Jones for a new era and so urgently needed. A must watch.