A couple of weeks ago I came across a quote from my favorite romance novelist Shameka Erby about leaning into love and joy for her Black characters and not letting pain or trauma be central in their stories:
“I write low angst romance, so I try to create external conflicts that fit into the lives I’ve created for the characters, while also making it clear they and their loves are absolutely weathering the storm together. Separation may be necessary, but it’s never the first, or even second, option. I’m not shy about the things my characters have to work through; I just make sure the readers know that the things they struggle with affect them, not define them. And they lean into love by not being afraid to ask for help.”
Erby’s words made me think about the way Black love is presented in the media and what it means to want that kind of “low angst” partnership in the art I consume. It’s only fitting that days after reading Erby’s quote, I started watching Netflix’s Forever, an eight-episode series from writer/director Mara Brock Akil, a revolutionary showrunner who has centered desire and kindness in her portrayals of love on shows such as Girlfriends, The Game, and Love Is.
Based on the 1975 Judy Blume novel of the same name, Forever chronicles the budding relationship between two high school juniors, Keisha and Justin, who fall in love and experience a host of firsts together. Set in Los Angeles in 2018, Forever welcomes us into a vision of love that vulnerability, care and innocence is at the forefront and protagonists can exist villain-free.
That isn’t to say that villains don’t exist in Forever. They’re there. Because to be Black in America is to survive in a world surrounded by villains whose central weapons are terror. In Forever, Justin’s mother worries about the extrajudicial killings of Black boys by police, while Keisha’s mom grapples with economic uncertainties. The pressures of being Black and excelling in school play in the margins of both teens’ story; as is the story’s timeline, set in the late 2010s, leaving the terror of 2020 to lurk in the shadows.
If there was one person who’s closest to a villain in Forever, it’s Christian, who shares with his friends an intimate video he made with Keisha, throwing her life into upheaval. The move is endemic of a larger conversation about the pitfalls Black girls face when trying to explore their sexuality in the age of social media and misogynoir.
Forever, though, doesn’t sit in these traumas so deeply that they distract from the pure love at the show’s center. Justin, played by newcomer Michael Cooper, Jr., and Keisha, played by the scene-dominating Lovie Simone, are so sincere in their portrayals that it’s impossible not to root for them. This makes every obstacle in their relationship even more agonizing than the one before. Yet, Keisha and Justin both lead with tenderness, striving for better communication and understanding with one another. It’s a welcome warmth that allows kids to be kids, even if the pair make childish decisions that can frustrate audiences who have themselves made similar mistakes.
While I may roll my eyes at Justin’s rudderlessness and clinginess to Keisha in his moments of insecurity, or Keisha’s prom decision, I can’t fault them too much because the shortsightedness feels so familiar to how I probably — and sometimes did — acted at their age.
But that’s where so much of the show’s sincerity resides as it constantly reminds us that we’re dealing with children. So often depictions of teens miss the mark in making us feel their youth. When I watch Euphoria, for instance, it feels like a show full of adults cosplaying as children and written by adults who think they know how children act. Forever makes sure we see and feel the couple’s youthful energy — from the giddy smiles Keisha can’t hold in when she’s around Justin, or the way Justin’s eyes light up when he’s around Keisha.
Akil’s lens finds ways to linger on their prom dance routines, frivolous conversations, and timid, awkward first touches. There’s a dual beauty to this, too, as so often youthfulness is stripped away from Black kids. They are rarely able to just be kids due to systemic “adultification” of Black children, causing them to be seen as much older than they are. Seeing a show that’s so dedicated to preserving Black children’s innocence is an act of love that should be applauded and replicated. It’s also exactly what Akil was aiming for.
“This show was never just about first love — it was about being seen, about letting teenagers be soft, complicated, and real. And the world showed up for that,” Akil told Netflix’s Tudum.
Keisha and Justin’s relationship isn’t the only version of Black love that feels so warm in Forever. Justin’s parents, Dawn and Eric, played by Karen Pittman and Wood Harris, maintain a marriage that is as aspirational as it is heart-warming. While watching Keisha and Justin, I found myself lamenting, even mourning, the fact I hadn’t known a relationship with that purity and joy for most of my life. I saw Justin and Keisha and thought about my own childhood (and, quite frankly, adult) insecurities that robbed me of such safe spaces with the people I’ve loved. Their abundant love made me feel the absence of my own youthful connections.
But Dawn and Eric offered a promise that we can heal and still be affirmed in ways that were absent in childhood. Eric and Dawn negotiate parenting with love for one another and for their sons. Forever goes out of its way to avoid boiling the couple down to the stereotypical portrayals of a “strict mother” and “lenient father,” instead offering three-dimensional development and reasoning for every decision they make.
Similarly, Keisha’s mother, Shelly, played beautifully by Xosha Roquemore, raises her daughter with love, determination and openness. Though she’s a single mother trying to make ends meet and protect her child while still trying to come to terms with her own struggles, Shelly gives Keisha the freedom and trust to explore. Keisha’s father, Quincy, played by William Catlett, is a self-admitted absent father who is trying to be more present but he’s hampered by his own perceived failures in life.
Each teens’ parents are just trying to keep them safe while also pushing them to succeed, but Dawn’s concerns for Justin felt frustrating to those of us rooting for the young couple. Still, watching Forever also taught me something about parenting. My first reaction to Justin and Keisha’s relationship was to maybe be dismissive of a childhood love. I tried to imagine myself being open to my child skipping college to make music. Yet Dawn and Eric give Justin the love and support he so desperately desires.
Akil set Forever in 2018, a time when terror was lurking around every corner for Black folks in the wake of Ferguson and the slew of high-profile killings of unarmed Black people. Those fears are abundant in Dawn’s motivations. But they don’t define how she parents. As we watch the series, which has been renewed for season 2, we can imagine what will come next for Keisha and Justin — a pandemic, an even more devastating countrywide racial reckoning in the wake of George Floyd’s murder, and a generation that is even more traumatized by social media and anti-Blackness.
But thanks to the foundational love between the characters, the audience can feel comfortable in the knowledge that not even those challenges will define Keisha and Justin’s love. We’ve seen too much to believe otherwise. And we trust Akil too much to lead us astray. Black art is at its best when it’s earned our trust that tomorrow will always be there to hold us.