I remember being about ten years old when I first read Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid. Needless to say, I was horrified by how different it was from the lighthearted 1989 Disney adaptation so many kids grew up with. It was more graphic, more painful, and, for lack of a better word, more sad.

Andersen’s mermaid does not have a name, whereas I wished to be named Ariel after my favorite Disney princess. The rules of going to the surface are also less restrictive than in the Disney adaptation, as a merperson’s journey to the surface is seen as a coming-of-age ceremony, and after that point, could go to the surface whenever they want rather than being forbidden from ever going up. Ariel’s tail becomes two legs from flashes of light and swirls of smoke, while Andersen’s mermaid mutilates herself by cutting off her tongue to pay the price for her transformation. The presence of the little mermaid’s grandmother and her sisters is noticeably absent from the Disney adaptation, which, in some ways, enhances the little mermaid’s loneliness rather than detracts from it. It’s also notable that the little mermaid experiences pain with every step she takes on her human legs, while Ariel does not seem to suffer any adverse effects of her transformation other than being unable to use her words. The most notable difference between Andersen’s story and the Disney adaptation is that Andersen’s little mermaid does not get her prince charming in the end; all of her sacrifices are rendered useless and go unappreciated because they are unsaid.

Rereading this story as an adult almost made me cry in my living room, especially knowing what I know now about Hans Christian Andersen and his rocky romantic relationships. Because of that, it’s no wonder that mermaids and many mermaid stories are often read through a queer lens, and no wonder that this story is so full of yearning and suffering.