Mesha Maren: Shae | Algonquin Books; May 2024
Fear, identity, love, and addiction are some of the visceral elements readers will explore in Mesha Maren’s novel Shae, published last month by Algonquin, in which the namesake narrator experiences a teen pregnancy with a trans partner.
If that plot sounds unique, the novel’s strength is rooted in its utter relatability in the face of dramatic circumstances: at the end of the day, this is a poignant coming-of-age tale that explores falling in love, experiencing heartache, and making hard decisions when you’re young.
This is the third novel by Maren, an associate professor of the practice of English at Duke University and a former Kenan Visiting Writer at UNC-CH. Maren grew up outside Alderson, West Virginia, in an Appalachian community much like the one we find in the narrator’s hometown. Shae, which follows 2019’s Sugar Run and 2022’s Perpetual West, is Maren’s latest in a run of Southern noir novels.
Maren has mastered writing flawed characters who wrestle with big questions; the powerful storytelling seen in this novel wonders, “Who am I? What do I want?”
The novel’s narrator, Shae, is a West Virginia 16-year-old who doesn’t have it easy: a teen pregnancy derails her life, and she takes on unsavory pursuits that stem, in some part, from a blooming opioid addiction that she got from post-birth pain medication. It’s a compassionate lens into addiction, where pills are dispensed freely to Shae.
“That first time, there in the hospital, was the best Oxy I ever had, and since then I’ve always been trying to get back,” Shae says at one point. As a reader, you ache for the teenager, as Maren artfully weaves together the many complicated parts of her young life. You don’t have to relate to her exact experiences to understand what it’s like to be a 16-year-old dealing with fear, heartache, and an uncertain future.
Her partner, Cam, meanwhile, explores what being trans in the rural South looks like. Both teenagers struggle with questions about belonging and their place in their family and community. The novel explores the nuances of coming out (and having loved ones come out), with Shae fretting, “Cam was transitioning right under her nose and Mom pretended like nothing was happening …. And I didn’t say a goddamn thing.”
She juggles early motherhood while trying to understand how to support her partner, with Cam stating plainly at one point, “I’m not me when I’m here.” Cam, meanwhile, has firsthand experience with addiction and her own fears: she knows better than anyone that addiction has consequences.
Maren reminds us that growing up is hard and confusing. This compelling novel manages to wrap itself in myriad important themes, including death, motherhood, incarceration, shame, and addiction, but is never heavy-handed.
Shae learns that the high doesn’t last forever: After all, what (and who) is left when the dust clears? Facing this question, situated in a coming-of-age story about first love, allows the novel to offer both an important queer voice and a strong Southern voice. It is a novel that carries its numerous identities well. The prose is gritty and flows so easily that Shae is hard to put down. It may be a powerful coming-of-age exploration, but it’s a story for everyone.
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