The Seep: A Utopia that Aches
The Seep, by Chana Porter is the utopian novel I've always wanted to see: one that tells a compelling story in a truly close to perfect world. Most often, stories like Brave New World and The Giver have strings attached. The populace may live a care-free, blissful life, but are devalued. They become a commodity of a system that ultimately grants them happiness out of convenience while not prioritizing their well-being. They generally work around to the conclusion that free will is essential to humanity, and the suffering we endure is all that allows us to truly feel joy. By contrast, the stripping away of free will is then one of the worst degradations a person can face, whether they recognize it or not. Even utopian novels that don't actually dystopian at their roots often fall into this, unable to see a perfect world in anything but a tightly controlled, maximum-efficiency system.
Porter's vision of a near-future benevolent alien invasion tackles the same questions of free will and joy vs. suffering, but in a way that feels more in tune with our present understanding of the world. The titular Seep, as it integrates itself with every aspect of the world, seeks to eliminate suffering of all kinds. Capitalism falls, as do borders. Death becomes optional, and reincarnation guaranteed. By stepping outside the realm of plausibility, Porter gets right to the heart of the great utopian question: why does Brave New World's John claim "the right to be unhappy?" Why does The Seep's protagonist, Trina FastHorse Goldberg-Oneka, reject a world that genuinely prioritizes the happiness of all?
(Spoilers past this point, you can read the end of this review on The StoryGraph if you'd rather avoid them.)
For the bulk of the novel, Trina is on an alcoholic bender. Her wife Deeba has decided to use the Seep's abilities to restart her life as a baby, leaving Trina in the awkward position of grieving a person who has just been reborn. As terribly flawed as the world used to be, Trina can't bring herself to fully convert to the new paradigm like her friends can. She refuses to take on the soma-like high the Seep grants through the water supply. Before her infantilization, Deeba mocks Trina's longing for the old days by invoking The Compound—a place set aside for those who choose a life of misery over the Seep (much like Brave New World's reservation). Trina stands in limbo between the old, painful, familiar world she can never return to, the new, kind one that took the love of her life away from her, and a monolithic third option that promises nothing but misery. In the midst of attempting to avoid confronting this impasse through alcohol, Trina crosses paths with a young boy who was cast out from the Compound. Only after their encounter does she decide to track him down to offer guidance. At this point, he has already been taken in by her friend Horizon Line: a man who stands for everything Trina hates about what the world has become.
In his introduction, Horizon admits he was born white, not black. After the Seep arived, he used it to take on the appearance of his deceased boyfriend. Trina, as a transgender woman who spent her 50 years in the old world fighting for the body she wanted, is horrified. She knows there is a difference between herself and Horizon, but is unable to voice why in the moment. Her frustration towards Horizon mirrors her discontent with the world. The Seep, in its infinite benevolence, adds insult to injury by trivializing all Trina has gone through. In order to accept Horizon's choice to change his race superficially, Trina would have to reject her entire past, everything that makes her who she is.
The story reaches its climax when The Seep, encountering the misery of the boy from The Compound for the first time, decides that humanity will only use its freedom to hurt itself. Like the earlier mentioned false utopias, The Seep is at the cusp of enforcing that one most terrible degradation. In a similar stand-off to Huxley's, Porter crafts a scene that I find much more appealing. Where Brave New World takes it's inhumanity as an immovable fact of the world, The Seep sits at a tipping point. Trina is in a much better position to oppose the total erasure of her world than John is to argue for the destruction of his own. While Trina ultimately learns to accept the grief of her loss and move on with her life, she is also able to articulate the importance of fucking up sometimes. She determines that humanity does not need an ideal system. When asked what they miss most about the time before the Seep, nearly every character in the book answers with some sort of junk food. Trina's aging bar-tender friend YD embraces her deteriorating health, believing it noble to feel the broadest range of human experience. Trina herself realizes that pain is not most important as an antonym to joy, but can even be a source of comfort. As a total stranger confides in Trina at one point, "we sometimes like things even though they're bad for us." There is comfort to be found in familiar vices. Catharsis can come from controlled self-destruction.
I am much younger than Trina, but I do feel like I can relate to her embracing pain in her life. Much of my own transition has been that for me. Gender dysphoria was the spur that drove me to question myself and led to me living a much happier life. Feminizing hormones make me feel confident in myself, even though they also make me more prone to scratching and bruising. They have even, as of late, begun enducing every period symptom short of bleeding on a monthly basis. I wouldn't trade any of this pain for anything. The things that hurt contextualize me in the world. They encourage me to grow and change. They re-affirm my commitment to myself. On a more casual level, I do love to eat a few more tater-tots than I should sometimes, or accept a hangover as a consequence for a night of lowered inhibitions. Of course this pain can go too far. There is plenty of real trauma in the world and we have the potential to do awful, terrible things to ourselves and others. Some things really should be left behind, given the option. If I could erase the horrors of the world, I would. I don't know that I could so easily eliminate the aches they leave behind.
The Seep can be rather heavy-handed in its moralizing. I personally prefer a more vague approach, but it makes sense that this novel would rather present itself openly. It has a clear message that it seeks to establish, and it does so very quickly. This book took me under 3 hours total to read, but was full of interesting characters, beautiful worldbuilding, and plenty of nuance on the subject of personal identity. I'm always happy to see a transgender lead in a story, no matter how much of it she spends grumbling on about "kids these days." Ultimately, I was very satisfied. The Seep politely asks the reader to hear it out, consider it's message on grief and healing, then allows the reader to move on with their life.