On the corner of Shawmut and Oak Street W, up the big flight of stairs, there is a map. Big colorful shapes assemble themselves into a familiar diagram: the United States.

The first time I saw this map, I knew something important was going to happen here. It had to— there is nothing more poetic, more metaphorical than a map. My mind began racing with possibilities of map-related events, trying to write the future into existence. Was I going to meet a love interest from the west coast and we would both sit on our respective states on the map, laughing at how insignificant the distance seemed now? Was I going to take a road trip to reconnect with my childhood love, using this map as a guide, remembering the states we passed through by the color the concrete is covered in? This map, which I had seen countless times before, suddenly seemed to have a new meaning. I figured my story was ready for some inciting incident, and this map was part of it. So how would my story play out?

No YA author enjoys metaphors more than John Green. His characters love metaphors so much, they become them. Augustus Waters is a metaphor for taking advantage of life, holding death between the teeth. Margo Roth-Spiegelman is a metaphor for our perceptions of the world, representing different things to different characters. Alaska Young is a metaphor for outward beauty, hiding secret complications beneath the surface. Growing up reading these books, I began believing everything secretly represented something else. It was almost too easy to forget these characters are polished, edited to be metaphors.

One of the biggest shocks was the clear disconnect between the males of John Green's books and real boys in high school. While I’m sure some boys would fly their girlfriend to Amsterdam to meet her favorite author or read Rabelais for fun, I never encountered them. Why did all the boys I know only call me after 10 PM and not know the difference between “you’re” (contraction) and “your” (possessive)? Should I wait for this real-life fictional character or should I settle for the first person who came by? Were the boys I knew duds or were my standards just too high? These standards weren’t my fault, it was John Green’s fault for introducing me to these unrealistic people.

When you read John Green's books in middle school, it affects how we think of high school. I know now that there were no Augustus Waters in my high school, but 14-year-old me had no idea! I had no reference to know these characters were at the maturity level of a middle-aged philosopher and nothing like real teenage boys. But this is how I was told things would go— a quirky girl (me) would attract the attention of an interesting (but odd) boy. There would be a meet-cute where he would say something so figurative I would be thinking about it for days. Eventually, adventures ensue— star-gazing, road trips, nights spent on maps. John Green’s books typically end in tragedy, but my story would not because this is the point in my mind where I stop being a book character and return to the real world—when it best suits me.

Because of Green’s characters, I began to identify being philosophical with being mature, and vice versa. I believed the real people I knew weren’t philosophical because they weren’t mature enough to formulate Greenian thoughts. In the books, this “maturity” leads to an epic adventure with friends or a grand romantic gesture. These were things I couldn’t help but seek, even though I knew they were purely romanticized. It is ingrained in our subconsciouses to search for these romantic, cliche characters—ultimately leading to disappointment when we realize just how fabricated they really are.

After reflecting on my romantic expectations, I realized nothing was going to happen at the map. There was no story, at least to do with this map. So why did it still mean so much to me? This map only meant something to me because I convinced myself of its significance. It is a paradox in itself, a metaphor that not everything has a deeper meaning, that not everything is a John Green metaphor. Thoroughly disappointed by the real world, I find comfort in the fact that I can always return to these made-up boys that John Green has created for me.

"It's a Metaphor" for Unrealistic Romantic Expectations