Over the past decade, Smells like Green Spirit has garnered fandom-wide acclaim through ostensibly defying traditionalist categorizations of all that BL ought to entail, captivating readers eagerly seeking out its oft-revered duology. Contextualized within the bucolic sensibilities of rural ‘90s Japan, those constrained by an all-consuming verdure stretching out into oblivion find catharsis through turning inwards. Amidst a backdrop of societal prejudice, the ‘united we stand, divided we fall’ ethos preserves through queer solidarity being a transformative juncture; a salve for displacement. Such a powerful sentiment is embodied by the bond forged between Green Spirit’s leading pair: Kirino, a transwoman contending with the weight of filial piety, and Mishima, uncertain of where to be placed along the gender binary (which of course won’t stop him from pocketing his mother’s lipstick).

Rather than serving as an arid wellspring from which romance feebly trickles, their bond emerges as a lush reservoir, flowing through a shared journey of self-discovery and affirmation. Anchored in mutual understanding, their connection frantically pours out onto the school rooftop in which clandestine meetings are held, away from prying eyes. Bathed by the summer sun’s rays, Mishima and Kirino discuss the type of men they’re attracted to (a burly and well-meaning teacher earns appreciative sighs), experiment with beauty products (all playful curiosity tinkering with an eyelash curler), and envision a dazzling world beyond the restrictive confines of their current reality. A stage where they can live as their authentic selves, sans judgement - maybe in another country, they muse.

For a summer captured in time, preserved in amber, the pair can wholly and unapologetically exist as themselves within a safe space they have cultivated. Kirino experiences an exhilarating, breathtaking sense of euphoria upon freely yelling out her desired pronouns for the first time, revelling in the warmth of all that was tucked away in the hidden crevasses of her heart being unleashed. Mishima contemplates the enjoyment he derives from donning feminine attire, yet remains uncertain about the precise contours of his own selfhood – he doesn’t want to be a woman, he thinks. Through these conversations, they are able to forget all that lies beyond. All that matters is who they are in this beautiful, beautiful moment, a season for them and them alone.

As summer’s warmth gives way to autumn in all its crisp insistence, leaves crunching underfoot, their joie de vivre is tempered by the inexorable weight of societal expectations. Ever-present, looming in the margins as an oppressive tertiary figure with their paths blanketed by its shadowy strain. Gossip trails them at every turn, similarly extending to Yumeno – a classmate taken with Mishima who experiences difficulty contending with the fact that the object of his affections is a man and not an agender, seraphine figure. The cutting whispers behind the casts’ collective back harbours the propensity to drag them deep into the abyss, and it’s all they can do to stave it off while they are still grappling with their own complex identities.

Mishima’s mother cuts a resolute figure, staunchly resisting the rumour mill’s gravitational pull and prioritizes the bond shared with her son through accepting him wholeheartedly. It’s a refreshingly forward-thinking approach which facilitates Mishima confidently making the move to Tokyo, flirting with genderqueer leanings through adopting drag whenever the mood strikes. While Mishima finds acceptance through his mother’s unwavering support, Green Spirit follows the eerily viridescent path into the shadows through Kirino’s mother. Embodying those clinging to heteronormative paradigms under the piercing gaze of societal expectations, her adherence to saving face fosters a deep-seated internalized bigotry within Kirino. This internal conflict finds its outlet in acts of cruelty directed toward Mishima in the series’ early stages, serving as a painful projection of her own repressed struggles with self-acceptance.

Burdened by the demands of filial piety, Kirino succumbs to the oppressive weight of societal expectations, resigning herself to the role of the dutiful son. In doing so, she conforms to the rigid heteronormative ideal of 2.5 children and a white picket fence. The transformative summer, filled with the promise of freedom and self-discovery, is relegated to a bittersweet relic of the past; a wistful glimmer of what could have been, what should have been, had the constraints of her circumstances permitted Kirino to fully embrace her authentic self.

Though Green Spirit concludes on a bittersweet note through conflicted extremes (flames blazing on in defiance vs. all but extinguished), an unpleasant facet of the work involves Yanagida – a teacher at the school which Mishima and his peers attend. My introduction to Green Spirit came about through its recent drama adaptation, which at first seemed poised to examine the difficulties closeted individuals encounter navigating through the complexities of their identities, not merely reserved to adolescents through Yanagida occupying a fair share of screentime. His attentiveness toward Mishima suggested an eventual mentoring role, noticing what those – such as the colleague enamoured with him – could not.

Threads weaving together a potentially uplifting character-centric arc swiftly unravelled the moment Yanagida administered a hundred spankings to Mishima – an act he became disturbingly immersed in. From that point he cuts a trite and hackneyed figure, subsequent actions no doubt requiring little elaboration as we’ve all been down this route before. For what began with careful presentation culminated in a melodramatic crashout the likes of which Light Yagami would approve of, all self-destructive excess and maniacal cackling. In curious contrast, Yanagida’s manga presence is unsettling from the moment he is introduced; dead-eyed, leering grins cracking across his face, shadows creeping over crooked necks.

Frustratingly Green Spirit isn’t particularly concerned with addressing how his behaviour and actions ultimately affected Mishima, however to creator Nagai’s credit this is being explored through the follow-up Shintan Kairou. Though I am not particularly fond of the work for various reasons given the sensitive subject matter (more exploitative than not), it does broach how the actions of figures like Yanagida can and do absolutely destroy lives.

Despite my reservations regarding the clichéd portrayal of characters such as Yanagida alongside the work’s bizarre tonal shifts (veers into gag manga territory), Smells like Green Spirit remains a valuable examination of queer solidarity during a desolate era in which finding likeminded individuals amidst the scattered remnants of cyberspace simply wasn’t possible. The pathos, jubilation, anxiety, and despair of Mishima and Kirino culminate in an unforgettable summer that countless readers have been unable to forget. The fact that it received a drama adaptation in 2024 is a testament to the work’s enduring popularity, and how it continues to resonate. Stories of queer friendships are invaluable, particularly within our turbulent times.

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