Booze! Drugs! Lust! All of which are sworn against at the evangelical church in Lauren’s suburban nightmare. Set in the early 2000s, at a sermon titled “Remaining a Pure Bride of Christ,” the pastor preaches about overcoming temptation and calls his congregation’s attention to his unmarried, pregnant teenage daughter that has, apparently, hit rock bottom. Isn’t this just so classic? We’ve seen it before in pop-culture with movies like Thirteen (2003) or the infamous Twilight (2008) saga, where abstinence is praised, paralleling this morality tale rooted in nuclear family dynamics. But Canadian artist Jessica Campbell adds a satirical dimension to this, bringing something entirely new to the table in her third comic, Rave. As intentional as it is deliberate, her overexaggerated tone emulates these ludicrous expectations for young minds and the pressures faced at a time when exploring our sexualities and bodies should be embraced.

Comedic in its format and provocative in her illustrations, we are absorbed into Lauren’s retrospective, bible-thumping world. Rave is an LGBTQ+ coming-of-age narrative that epitomizes that awkward elementary school experience where yogurt tubes are stuffed into lockers, erotic doodles are passed in class and true love lasts a couple of weeks at most. A truly terrifying place where students are forced to partner up to create poorly constructed Bristol board presentations on homo erectus and gym class is mandatory. If that wasn’t already bad enough, add trying to figure out who you are as a person and the backlash that comes with honest self-expression. Psst! Didn’t you hear? “Lauren Brown is a fucking d*ke.” Campbell’s comic goes beyond these lame middle school antics, conveying a much deeper message. In exploration of Lauren’s budding sexuality, her work tackles Christian guilt, internalized homophobia and a culture of slut-shaming. This is no regular rave, oh no. There will be absolutely no devilish loud music or immoral dancing, as you may insinuate from the title, but a Christian rave that takes us down a spiral of self-discovery.

Lauren is the perfect candidate for this journey; exemplary for storytelling, but altogether boring as a person. She’s a blank canvas, an overly passive character with very little control over the things that happen to her. She exercises almost no autonomy as a result of her religious upbringing, encouraging the suppression of her romantic feelings and contributing to her own suffering that she readily accepts as just the way matters are. Like Curly Howard says in Disorder in the Court (1936): “I’m a victim of circumstance,” what can you do? Her lack of agency is honestly frustrating, as she creates her own misery most of the time, reminding us of just how paralyzed she is. Her helplessness and confusion are relatable in this sense, epitomizing this internal panic we feel when trying to establish ourselves under a strict, heteronormative lens.

Enter Mariah, a queer, Wiccan adolescent who is unapologetically and authentically herself. With a low-tolerance for bullshit, she dresses and expresses herself in a way that suits her and no one else. This dramatic contrast between the two of them and their relationship that Rave centers its plot around is a mechanism for change. Mariah is Lauren’s deep-seated fears that become flesh, which forces her to confront them. But Mariah is also a lesson, an exercise in the importance of going after the love we desire and deserve. Mariah teaches Lauren to be brave—to overcome these anxieties about her sexuality that are unfairly thrust upon her. I’m inspired by her tenacity; it’s impactful to see her self-realization and the way she navigates herself through a state of becoming that Campbell so artfully portrays. In the last panel, Lauren exits the sermon she’s attending and lights a cigarette. Cigarettes are associated with Mariah in the comic, as we watch Lauren observe her smoking constantly. This is the first time Lauren has made an active choice for herself, as if embodying Mariah’s persona and fearlessness. This is a powerful comparison and a paragon of Lauren’s growth. Mariah may be out of her life, but she has given Lauren the strength to break out of this charade.

The author’s artistry does an incredibly vivid job of expressing Lauren’s inner turmoil. Her visuals push the story forward in unique ways. The repeated imagery of Lauren sitting in an armchair is evocative and thought-provoking. This contiguity shows her crush on Mariah unfolding as she chats with her on the family’s dial-up phone, followed by longing stares, patiently waiting for her call. This tracking of her relationship parallels this crisis with self-identity. She’s unable to let go of the feeling that what she’s doing is “wrong,” exaggerated by these juxtapositions. Campbell skillfully reflects this via her expressions. She’s perplexed when Mariah shares her Wiccan altar or completely distraught while gazing out the car window after their relationship falters. This is uplifting and self-defeating, all at once, as we bask in her discomfort. We get to experience that pain with her and understand the weight of neglecting parts of our identity because we’re scared to come clean, sometimes even more afraid to admit it to ourselves. Those moments spent shedding tears in the toilet of the locker room at school in response to some homophobic comments made by mean girls. How cliché! But all too real. 

But this isn’t a sob story! There’s humour in the darkness and Campbell takes advantage of this. She uses blatant satire to expose the absurdity of these deeply rooted and problematic beliefs that rule Lauren’s hometown. The same beliefs that alienate the LGBTQ+ community and put down women. Her mockery articulates this internal battle with sexuality and faith. The damage that bigotry, enforced in the name of religion, can have is exemplified by phrases like “enslaved to masturbation,” or “our lord put [girls] on earth to act as servants” or perhaps “Satan’s proposed legalization of so-called gay marriage.” This is insanity! Preposterous! Talk about melodramatics! My only reaction is to laugh at this insane logic.

As nonsensical as it is, these proclamations are derived from real manifestations. Campbell opens with a quote from Pat Robertson: “Feminism is a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism, and become lesbians.” This is an excerpt from a letter sent with the intention of expressing disapproval of the Equal Rights Amendment. It’s the same irony throughout the story that she weaves multiple messages and is the premise Rave is built on. Outrageous proclamations that tear apart humanity and leave us feeling uneasy about our capacity for compassion for one another. Mariah is the perfect feminist candidate and she perishes. But she lives on in Lauren. With this, Campbell cleverly leaves us with one final thought: let’s abolish the systems that threaten to dismantle our inner peace. 

Even in 2022, having a defined sense of self is a struggle. I often feel conflicted—an unrelenting identity crisis—and I’m still running in circles around myself at 20 years old, trying to better understand who I am. It’s enough to consider without the pressures of reality. We need time to think and grow and Campbell gives us the space to do so. Have love, empathy and patience, because we’re all continuing to learn about ourselves and aiming to navigate, as smoothly as we can, through this incessant, unforgiving world around us.