by Nisi Shawl
We must not only look forward when using visionary science fiction to build new worlds, but we must engage in the concept of Sankofa to create the future. The Andinkra symbol for Sankofa, used in Ghana, is a bird moving forward but with its head looking behind. It is often connected to the proverb that translates, “It is not wrong to go back for that which you have forgotten.”3 We must go back for the dreams of those who came before and sculpt the future from this breathing clay. We have the right, the responsibility, and the privilege of continuing this collective dreaming towards total and true liberation into the future, and to build it in the here and now.
It is this level of real-life world-building and transformation adrienne and I hope to add to with our book. Offering visionary science fiction as a process for engaging in liberatory collective dreaming, and then pulling those dreams down from the stars and making them a reality. Adrienne has been traveling the world facilitating Octavia Butler emergent strategy sessions, asking, “What lessons for our movements for justice can we learn from Octavia’s writing, from science fiction?” One of our contributors, Morrigan Phillips, developed a science fiction and direct action organizing workshop that uses science fiction worlds as testing grounds for real life-tactics and strategies. We have been holding collective storytelling/visioning workshops, asking how we can imagine the social issues we struggle with into the future and prepare for those worlds now, centering them in humanity.
Much of my work has focused on alternatives to incarceration, and I believe this work serves as a prime example of why our movements for justice need science fiction. We have been told for so long that prisons and policing are all we have to address harm done in our communities, told that there are no other options. Visionary science fiction allows us to mine our pasts for knowledge and solutions, and use those to envision systems of justice and accountability that prioritize wholeness and healing over retribution and punishment. Centering conversations about race, centering communities that have been marginalized and oppressed, allows us to create institutions that will make our communities stronger and safer.
In his Dark Matter essay, Delany also offers visions of alternatives to the oppressive systems that shape all of our lives: “Because we still live in a racist society, the only way to combat it in any systematic way is to establish—and repeatedly revamp—anti-racist institutions and traditions.”4 It is not enough to just write well as Black people to somehow dispel racism; we actually and actively have to dream of and build alternative systems. Science fiction is one process that allows us to step outside of everything we think we know. To stop asking the question, “What is realistic?” and begin to answer the question, collectively, “What do we dream of?”
In my City Paper article about him I wrote, “Delany’s determination to discuss issues of sexuality, race, and gender in the context of his liquid, complex writing sets him apart from authors who offer easy solutions. Delany’s writings are a reflection of life, where there are no easy problems, let alone well-defined answers5.”
I am thankful for the questions Delany’s work raises, especially the visionary question, “What do we want?” His creations give us so many opportunities to question—well, everything. These convoluted futures he gave us, these “ambiguous heterotopias,” allow us to see race, class, gender, sexuality clearly. And perhaps more importantly, they allow us to see the intersections of these identities and their oppressions, the ways systems of oppression interlock, thus allowing us to understand that any alternative institutions and traditions we create must do the same.
My first encounters with Delany’s work also showed me how these larger conversations are an external manifestation of each person’s internal realities. Like light expanding as it moves farther from its source, touching and illuminating, that far-reaching light is still the same tiny spark at its core. His memoirs and essays, what he calls “promiscuous autobiography,” framed around his intersectional analysis and experience of being a Black gay man in America, fundamentally changed my thinking around sex and power and identity. They show in practice what Delany writes in his Dark Matter essay: “…transgression inheres, however unarticulated, in every aspect of the black writer’s career in America.6” Delany’s work, of course, articulates it so clearly you could hear it on Triton.
Delany’s promiscuous autobiography also gave me the space to include myself in my work, to see my life, in all its messy complexities, not as my private shame, but as composed of pieces of larger issues we are all holding and exploring. Because it is only when we bring into our work ourselves in all our contradictions, at our most human, that we are useful in imagining new futures and systems of visionary wholeness.
My 2001 interview ended up going extremely well, mostly because Samuel Delany was one of the most gracious, open, and welcoming folks I’ve ever had the pleasure of interviewing. He was gentle with my fumbles, helpful in providing context when I didn’t know to ask for it, and generous with his time. The story actually ended up being my first (and last) cover story with City Paper, though that is more to his credit as a fascinating subject rather than to any journalistic ability on my part.
Samuel Delany’s work, in every genre and every way, stands as a testament to the scope of imagination, highlighting the idea that you can both create the fantastical as visionary and also view the everyday through a visionary lens. And his words remind us that, ultimately, they are one and the same, for those of us who are walking science fiction.
Endnotes:
1 Interview. “Avery Brooks and Justin Emeka discuss ‘Death of a Salesman’ at Oberlin.” Filmed at Oberlin on September 1, 2008. Produced by Daniel Schloss. https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Avery+Brooks+and+Justin+Emeka+discuss+%22Death+of+a+Salesman%22+at+Oberlin
2 “Black is Black.” The Jungle Brothers featuring Q-Tip, Straight Out the Jungle, 1988, Idlers/Warlock Records.
3 “African Tradition, Proverbs, and Sankofa.” Sweet Charity: The Story of Spirituals. Retrieved Feb. 11, 2015. http://www.spiritualsproject.org/sweetchariot/Literature/sankofa.php
4 Thomas, Sheree Renée, ed. Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora. New York: Aspect Books, 2000, pg. 396-397.
5 Imarisha, Walidah. “Sex, Race and Outer Space: How being black and gay influenced groundbreaking science fiction author Samuel R. Delany.” City Paper, Philadelphia, June 21-28, 2001. http://citypaper.net/articles/062101/cs.bq.delany.shtml
6 Thomas, Sheree Renée, ed. Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora. New York: Aspect Books, 2000, pg. 392.
Heart of Brass
Alex Jennings
All of us have special ones who have loved us into being.
—Fred Rogers.
Brass Monkey finished off the last of the Hate City gangsters by stuffing him into a dumpster in an alleyway off Jackson Avenue and crimping its lid closed. The blow she’d dealt to the nerve cluster at the base of his neck had shorted out his powers—which weren’t so hot to begin with—and he’d be helpless long enough for the police to arrive and cart him off to Powered Holding.
After taking a quick look around to see who was watching, Monkey pulled the Mask from her face. It came away easily enough, and Althea Dayo bloomed back into being.
It was just after eleven on a Sunday morning. Monkey had spent all night chasing those Hate City assholes across town after they tried to spring a trap on her in Wallingford.
In human form, Thea’s senses were not as keen—which was good, since this alleyway smelled of burnt hair and human waste. Even so, Thea felt an angry rumbling in her belly and knew she must have skipped dinner again last night. She shook her head, irritated with herself, as she opened her leather satchel and slid the Mask inside. She dug around a little, hoping for an energy bar, but all she found was a couple of crushed M & Ms.
She shrugged and popped the candy, considering what to do next. If she’d thought before changing back, she would have made her way home to Cap
itol Hill first, but now she’d have to bus her way there, which would take longer than she could safely wait to eat.
Thea bent a little and clutched her belly, grimacing. Her period was at least a week away, so she knew she must have missed lunch, as well. Transforming back and forth used up a lot of energy, and without fuel, Thea’s body couldn’t help but register its protest. We gotta take better care of ourself, Thea thought.
Brass Monkey didn’t answer.
Thea grabbed her cell phone and flipped it open as she slid into character. She dialed 911.
“Please state the nature of—?”
Thea cut her off. “Oh my God! Oh God! I just—! There was a guy in a fez and sunglasses, and he shot beams or something out of his hands and Brass Monkey hit him, and they went into an alleyway, and I heard them crashing around! Send cops! Send everybody! He’s got powers!”
◊
Thea was nearly broke after paying rent on Thursday, but Cham and Diep at Green Leaf usually let her eat for free. Besides, it was Sunday, which meant Simon would be working. Thea hadn’t seen him in days. As she walked, Thea considered the events of the previous night.
Honestly, she felt a little sorry for the Hate City Boys. With their leader dead, they didn’t seem able to get it together anymore—their powers had dulled, and they hadn’t executed a successful crime in months. Not even so much as a bank job. Every time Thea ran into one of them (in the old days, they’d never traveled alone) his suit looked slept-in, his fez looked half-squashed, or his mirrored sunglasses were all scratched-up.
But who was she kidding? A little despair wasn’t a tenth of what those jackasses deserved. The only reason they’d never killed anyone was because Brass Monkey stopped them at every turn. Besides: anyone who needed a father figure so badly that he’d place himself under the influence of Chairman Bombast had failed at life as far as Thea was concerned.
Thea turned down 8th Avenue South, rubbing her belly as she went. The restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall, but Thea loved it. The furniture was cheap and ill-matched, as were the dishes, but everything was immaculately clean. As soon as Thea walked in, she smelled meat and herbs sizzling on the grill, heard the kitchen staff yelling at each other in Thai, saw Simon bump his way out of the kitchen balancing a broad platter piled with dishes.
He cast Thea a quick smile as he began serving a large family gathering.
Since neither Cham nor Diep were out front at the register, Thea crossed the room to sit at a table by the kitchen door and watch Simon work. His skin was dark—almost bronze—and while he was slight of frame, he had an unobtrusive fighter’s musculature that made him look carved from wood.
◊
Thea and Simon first met after the Olive Way Massacre, when most of Seattle still seemed asleep on their feet, trying to drag themselves out of a terrible nightmare. People tended to lose track of their words, trailing off in the middle of sentences, or to stop on the sidewalk, staring up into the sky as if some vision there could make sense of what had happened. Thea felt a pang of guilt every time she saw someone struggling that way: After all, it was she, as Brass Monkey, who had seized their minds and drawn them to aid her in her battle against the King of Cats.
Simon, though, was one of the few who’d escaped the Call’s effects. He’d strolled into Coffee Messiah and ordered a soy mocha latte, and though they exchanged not a word, the grin he gave Thea as she handed him his drink made her heart skip in her chest. He’d started coming in every day after that, and whether he bought a drink or not, he always tipped Thea at least five dollars. Finally, Thea had asked him out dancing, and they’d spent a sweaty Friday night writhing together at a Belltown club.
She would have gone home with him. She’d wanted desperately to go home with him, but the noise of twisting metal and shattering glass from the street outside had told her she had work to do. An awful roar rolled through the city and the techno beat stuttered to a halt: A Chinese dragon had tossed a city bus into Key Arena.
Cursing her luck, Thea headed for coat check to grab her satchel and her Mask.
◊
Simon cast a smile at Thea over his shoulder, and when he’d finished serving his table, he crossed to join her.
“Hey, Lovely. What brings you by today?”
Thea blushed and looked away. “Well, I came to see you.”
When she glanced back at him his smile had become a grin. “Oh, yeah?”
“Listen,” Thea said. “I’m sorry about Tuesday night. Something came up.”
Simon’s expression darkened slightly. “Yeah, I—It was a bad night for me, too. But you called, so…so no big deal.”
“Really?”
“All will be forgiven you if you come to the park with me this afternoon.”
“I…can do that,” Thea said. “Two o’clock?” That would give her time to get home and change.
“Two is good. Meet me at my place and I’ll drive. Have you eaten?”
◊
The sky was unusually bright as Thea stepped from her bus onto Broadway. She tried not to dwell on her past, but more and more these days, she found herself wondering how her life had led her to this moment or that one, and now she considered Seattle and how she’d come here.
She remembered her bedroom at the Academy. Its rock show fliers, Japanese lanterns, and paper parasols. The East window offered a beautiful view of Silver Spring, and on a clear day, one might even catch the glint of the Potomac winding away in the distance. Thea had graduated high school by then, but she and her classmates had yet to complete their exit exams. Thea had taken to sneaking out at night as Brass Monkey, patrolling DC and Silver Spring. Sometimes she even went as far as Baltimore, quietly spotting and stopping trouble before it could start.
But then, Moloch.
The news footage made him look like a robot. He wore a suit of rusty, cobbled-together armor, ambient energy glowing through its chinks. He descended from the sky to the shipyard in Norfolk, Virginia, and banged his fists on the ground to set off an earthquake that rocked the Eastern Seaboard.
Everyone who could have handled him was either offworld at the time or tending to crises elsewhere on the planet, so Mr. Clown had streaked off to deal with Moloch on his own.
Thea and the other students watched on CNN as a swath of black lightning split the sky and hit Moloch head-on.
“He’s using a lot of juice,” Sakyo said.
“It’s broad daylight,” Thea said. “He’s got to end it fast.”
“Oh,” Sakyo said softly. The fight had moved several yards away, but the camera crew had followed. When they got him inside the frame, Clown looked the worse for wear. He drew back his fist and rammed it with a crack into Moloch’s chest, but his movements looked all wrong. He seemed drunk, almost, swaying on his feet.
Now Thea saw why: Moving almost too quickly to track, Moloch rushed Clown, grabbed him, and held him close, sucking the darkness right out of him. As they watched, Clown powered down until he was only John, a thin, freakishly tall man with long black hair and nut-brown skin.
John’s knees buckled as Moloch let him go. He spilled to the ground, and Moloch whirled to face the camera.
People of Earth, he said—His voice was a fuzzed-out electronic growl—This day belongs to Moloch. Bring me your children; I hunger for their flesh!
◊
Thea unlocked her apartment’s front door and threw it closed as she ran for the bedroom with her satchel. She heard the television on and knew that Barong Ket had spent the morning watching cartoons.
She knelt on the floor to pull a metal steamer trunk from underneath the bed and sighed softly as the smell of polished candlenut breathed its way into the room. She pulled the Mask from her satchel and held it for a moment, examining its contours as she would have a reflection of her own face.
Stay home.
“What?” Thea said. “Why?”
She put the Mask away and turned to see Barong Ket crouching on the hardwood floor outside the bedroo
m. In his left hand, he gripped an apple the way a man would grip a bowling ball. He scratched his beard and grunted, then turned to lope away, his tail bobbing behind him.
Thea rolled to her feet and followed the monkey into the living room. “Since when do you order me around? Why should I stay home?”
Barong Ket looked over his shoulder at her, then turned away again, scratching his beard.
“Speak,” Thea commanded.
Barong Ket shivered, helpless to obey. Bad things today, he chittered. Bad! Stay home!
“Oh, I know what this is,” Thea said. “You’ve been acting like this ever since I started seeing Simon.”
Now Ket turned. Thea have duty, he said, speaking with exaggerated calm.
“And I fulfill it!” Thea argued. “I protect the city. I defend its people from their natural predators. Why can’t I have someone?”
Thea can…. Just not him.
“Gods! Look, I know you like Sakyo. I like him, too! But he’s all banged-up and crazy inside—!”
Like Thea!
“But he’s too much like me. I need someone normal to remind me what I’m fighting for.” She paused for a beat. Then, “But you know what? I’m not going to argue this with you. In fact, I hereby forbid you to speak on this subject.”
First Thea say, “speak,” then Thea say “no speak”. What Thea want, really?
◊
Thea bit her palm and brooded all through the bus ride to Wallingford. She shouldn’t have treated Ket so harshly, but her relationship with Sakyo was a sore spot. Ever since Sakyo arrived at the Academy, everyone assumed some special connection between him and Thea. At first, Thea thought it was because they were both Asian, but over time she’d come to believe it was more than that.